


Love, Essentially

by eyeus



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Love Actually Fusion, Love Actually References, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>To me, you are perfect.</i> </p><p>Rick’s confession, made with snow-damp cue cards and every ounce of his devotion, had been perfection itself—except his perfect love belonged to someone else.</p><p>But spring’s in full swing now, and it’s the time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. It’s the season for change itself.</p><p>Little does Rick know how <i>much</i> his life will change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> A _Love, Actually_ fusion fic. Inspired mainly by this gifset [ here](http://eyeus.tumblr.com/post/145627348002/supernaturalymarvel-rickyl-love-actually), and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7u6bMBlCXw/) scene from the _Love, Actually_ movie. 
> 
> As this is a fusion fic of sorts (not a crossover), elements of the movie have been borrowed for this story. You won’t need to have seen the movie to understand the fic, however; the only knowledge needed is that Andrew Lincoln’s character in the movie has unrequited feelings toward his best friend’s bride-to-be/wife, and ends up confessing through cue cards, as shown in the video. This fic reworks a couple of things, since this is a Walking Dead version of similar events, but ultimately, this is the story of what happens after ‘Rick’ walks away—the healing and finding of a new love. :)
> 
> That’s all for now, happy reading!

~

_Be nice to Lori,_ Shane always said.

Or, _don’t be a dick, Rick_ —Shane’s favourite, because it rhymed.

And the age-old standby, _I don’t know why you don’t like her, man_.

Except _Lori_ had known, hadn’t she? How the very opposite of that was true? Of course she had, after the set of cue cards Rick brought to her and Shane’s doorstep last Christmas, along with a portable stereo, thinking he was going to perform a midnight serenade—all while Shane was upstairs, hanging tinsel and balancing the star on their lovely little Christmas tree. 

Lori had _known_ , from the moment she’d seen Rick’s video of her and Shane’s wedding, and watched the way the camera focused solely on her, capturing every detail of _Lori, Lori, Lori_ , from her lovely brown doe eyes to her laughing mouth. And Rick’s foolish attempt at confessing how he felt, because he thought he might burst from the ache of it, had only confirmed it.

_To me, you are perfect_. 

Those had been the words Rick penned on the last card in the set, the embodiment of everything he thought she was. Everything he couldn’t have. And when he’d run out of cards and words to express himself, he’d flashed her a thumbs-up, not knowing if the motion meant _Still friends, right?_ or _No hard feelings, right?_ but it seemed like the physical equivalent of _there you have it_. 

So there Lori had it, and the truth about Rick’s feelings was out.

Lori had chased him down in the street, amid flickering Christmas lights and tinsel that winked when the moon caught it just right, and given him a kiss to the cheek. A light and chaste press of lips, as if to say _Thank you for loving me_ and _goodbye_. 

That’d been months ago, and from the looks of things, Lori’s kept his secret. Hasn’t told Shane all about it so they could have a laugh at Rick’s expense together, because Shane hasn’t come around with his hands balled into fists and a _heard you been makin’ moves on my woman_ posturing bullshit. And Rick’s grateful for that, at least.

But then he remembers that was _months_ ago. That it’s the start of June now, and spring’s in full swing. It should be a time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. He should be _over_ Lori by now. 

And he is, mostly, except for those quiet nights every once in a while. When he thinks back to her warm brown eyes, ones that said _I’m sorry_ , even as she’d taken in his confession, even as she’d kissed him, chaste, on the cheek. Her laugh. Her smile. When Rick curses his luck, thinking _it could’ve been me, in the house that night, decorating the tree and putting up tinsel_. 

_It could’ve been me._

Rick shakes his head now, because there’s no point thinking about things past. Shoulders his way out of the crowded local coffee shop—Duncan’s Donuts, because the owner hadn’t wanted a lawsuit on his hands from Dunkin’ Donuts—and makes his way down the street, heading back to the station for the afternoon debriefing. 

Work’s all he’s got now, having thrown himself into it for the past couple of months. Because he’s tired of tagging along with Shane and Lori and being the third wheel. Tired of listening to their _we’re trying for a baby’_ s and _what should we name it’_ s and _you wanna be the godfather, Rick?_ He knows they only mean well, but it’s salt on a sore wound and he doesn’t need that right now.

Rick’s just tired of _everything_. But work makes for a welcome distraction and a good excuse too, because he’s not interested in heading down to the local dive with his other buddies, not up for hooking another fish from the sea like they’re all telling him to. And these days, after the lateral work transfer, he doesn’t even have to see Shane as much, and hence Lori, so things are looking up anyway. 

He’s tucked the folder of case files he was supposed to look at over lunch under one arm and balanced his coffee mug in the other hand, just looking to step into another balmy Georgia afternoon when someone knocks into him, _hard_. Sloshes Rick’s coffee down the front of his uniform and scatters his papers across the sidewalk, one hovering dangerously close to the gutter.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” says a high, whining voice. 

Rick looks up into pretty blue eyes and gold-spun hair, wondering if this is the day his fortunes turn around. If _this_ is the day where the woman stops in her tracks, and, enchanted by his rugged good looks, apologizes, flustered, and helps him pick up his papers. They’ll have a good laugh about it, followed by coffee at cozy teahouses and dinners at fancy restaurants, and after a whirlwind romance, they’ll have a charming little love story to tell their kids. 

Except she’s not looking at him at all, too busy texting on her phone as she walks on by, and she only spares a moment to look behind her and throw Rick a glare. Makes a sound somewhere between irritation and disdain, like Rick somehow got in _her_ way, and it wasn’t her own single-minded devotion to her phone that led to their collision.

Leaves Rick in the dust, coffee dripping from his uniform and his papers strewn across the street. 

Rick sighs and kneels to pick up the scattered reports, guessing it serves him right for buying into the foolish dream of a Hollywood romance. From where he’s kneeling, he can see another pair of legs pass by, slacks with worn-out sandals. Another, with a run in the pantyhose and black high heels. 

He stops counting after six people pass him by and not a single person stops to help, some of them even speeding up to pretend they haven’t seen him. 

_Figures_ , Rick decides sourly. _Should’ve known better than to believe in the kindness of other people._

And just as he’s thought that, he sees a pair of hands scraping his papers up from the pavement, even peeling up the coffee-drenched ones, separating them out from the others and trying to tidy them all into a neat bunch to hand to him. Someone kneeling on his level, actually stopping to _help_ him. 

“Thanks,” Rick says, as the hands before him gather up the papers. The documents aren’t in order anymore, but the fact that someone’s helping him is more than enough already. Makes it one less report he’s going to have to chase down when the wind whirls it away. 

Rick looks up to thank his saviour, because if he’d lost a single report, the chief would have his ass, and that’s just not something he needs on a day like today. And if this were a rom-com like the ones his sister adored, he’d look up into eyes of bluest blue, and the sun would form a halo behind the kind soul who took the time to stop and help him, making them look like an _angel_ or the next messiah.

As it is, Rick looks up into eyes that aren’t blue, aren’t slate-grey, but somewhere confusingly in between. He takes a moment to consider how, if he had to name the color, he’d call it _grue_ , or _bley_ , before realizing that’s no way to think about someone who’s stopped just to help him. And there’s no sun shining from behind to form an ethereal backlight, no choir singing heavenly hymns; it’s just a man in a black shirt with cutoff sleeves, a leather vest that’s seen better days, and jeans with more holes in them than a wedge of Swiss cheese. 

“Thanks,” says Rick, blinking, even if his voice falters for just a moment. “I mean it.”

“Sure.” The man nods, hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He’s well on his way to becoming the spitting image of the messiah at least, hair growing beyond his ears and a fair amount of scruff along his jaw. When they’ve gathered all of the papers, he stands up and digs around in his back pocket, and it’s only a second before he’s offering Rick a faded red rag, to soak up the hot coffee Rick’s slopped all over himself.

“You don’t have to…” Rick tries, gesturing uselessly, before the rag’s pressed into his hand, insistent, and he’s met with a _You need it, use it_. “Thanks,” he says again. And this time, he remembers to infuse that word with how grateful he really is, setting aside his disappointment that he didn’t just meet a blonde angel out there on the street. Hands the rag back with his best attempt at a smile.

The man wrings the rag out onto grass while Rick’s putting his papers in order, and as he does so, Rick can’t help but notice the flex of his arms, the muscle corded and lean. “You all right, then?” he asks Rick, tucking the rag back into his pocket. 

And when Rick nods, still a little dazed—because god, those _arms_ — the man gives him a small, quick nod in return, and turns to walk away. 

He’s definitely different, all right, Rick thinks. Someone unusual. Someone _new_. Like a breath of fresh air, somehow, Rick decides, before backtracking and figuring there’s no need to go _that_ far in describing him yet.

“Wait,” says Rick, jogging the few steps it takes to close the distance between them. “ _Wait_.”

The man turns around, instantly alert. Like he’s ready for an attack, if it comes. “Yeah?”

“I’m Rick,” says Rick, knowing somehow that he’s got to offer his name first. “How about you?” He offers his hand too, hoping it’s a motion disarming enough for the man to accept. And maybe he didn’t meet his soulmate from this, but there’s no need to be a dick about it either.

The man narrows his eyes, like he’s taking Rick’s measure. Studying, evaluating him, to see if Rick means him any ill will. Means to use the information against him, somehow. “Daryl,” he says, when he’s finally decided, the taut line of his shoulders relaxing just a touch. And when he clasps Rick’s hand, his shake is solid and firm and warm, which is great, because Rick _hates_ cold, dead fish handshakes.

_Daryl_. Rick beams at him as he tucks the mess of coffee-stained papers under his arm. “Look, I got a meetin’ I need to get to, but you really saved me this time. Let me make it up to you with a coffee or somethin’.”

Daryl shoves his hands into his pockets. “Don’t need to thank me,” he says gruffly. “Was just the decent thing to do.”

Rick’s shaking his head already, because no, six people passed him by and none of them had done the decent thing, and he’s feeling like this small kindness has to be rewarded somehow. “You know what they say. One good turn deserves another.”

“Well, ain’t you a saint,” Daryl snorts. He seems to be able to tell that Rick won’t let him go without a fight though, and with a grunt, fishes a napkin out of his jeans. “Shop closes at six,” he says, scrawling a number onto it. “You can call after that, if you want.”

“The shop?” Rick’s brow crinkles. 

“My brother’s motorcycle repair shop,” Daryl shrugs. “Over on Oak. I rebuild ‘em and do repairs for him from time to time.”

_Oh_. Rick knows the one Daryl’s talking about, even if he’s never given it a second look. _Big M’s Motors_. He’d always thought, from the name, that it dealt in used cars or car parts. “That’s the one across from the late-night diner, right?” He glances at the number written into food-stained paper and smiles. “I’ll call you after close, then.”

Daryl blinks at him, like he’s still not sure this exchange is real. “You do that,” he says with a nod. 

And as Daryl turns and walks away, Rick finally notices the pattern that’s stitched into the back of his vest, now that he’s not chasing Daryl down. 

It’s a pair of white wings.

_Angel_ wings. 

_Huh_ , Rick blinks, surprised. _How about that_.


	2. Making Plans

~

Rick’s sitting on his couch after work, the television on mute as he counts down the minutes, because he can’t call early—too eager—but he _definitely_ can’t call too late.

The moment it hits six o’ clock, Rick yanks out his phone, checking that the napkin Daryl’s scrawled his number on hasn’t bled ink all over the place, and that the coffee he’d spilled on himself earlier hadn’t soaked it through. It’s thankfully intact, and while Rick’s fingers drum a primitive staccato of _now, now, now_ over the keys, he manages to wait a staggering three minutes before punching the number in on his phone.

It rings six times, and halfway through the seventh, Rick hangs up in a panic. Has to take one calming breath, two, before trying again. Because what if Daryl’s changed his mind? What if he’s decided he doesn’t want Rick’s gratitude anymore? After all, stopping to help Rick out was only the decent thing to—

Someone picks up on the fifth ring this time, and it’s not Daryl’s voice, low and gruff, but another, brusque and loud and sandpaper-rough. “We’re closed,” snaps the voice on the other end. “Ain’t got no after-hours service here. Whaddaya want?”

“I’m lookin’ for Daryl?” Rick says, feeling sweat gather on his palms. He reaches down to blot a hand on his jeans. 

There’s a pause and some shuffling, before the voice yells, “Daryl, there’s a call for you! Get your ass out here, before I—”

Rick hears a soft _Shut up, Merle, I got it_ , and the sound of a phone cord squeaking and stretching, before Daryl’s on the phone. “Yeah,” he says.

Somehow it doesn’t surprise Rick that that’s his form of greeting, and something warm threads through Rick’s chest at the sound of Daryl’s voice.

“Hey. It’s Rick. You know, from this afternoon?” It’s only now that Rick realizes he has no idea how to continue, like his mouth’s been gummed shut, and he falls back on tried and true conversation starters, only to find he’s having trouble with those too. “I was wonderin’—well, I was thinkin’—” Rick tries in the end, hoping to spit out the name of a coffee shop, any coffee shop out, before Daryl cuts him off. 

“It’s all right,” says Daryl. “You don’t gotta follow through. Like I said, it was just the decent thing to do.”

“No,” Rick says, immediate, because he can’t have Daryl thinking that he’s changed his mind, that he’s reneging on his offer to take Daryl out for coffee. “That’s not what I meant. _No_.”

He’s met with silence from the other end, before Daryl says, “Well, you got a place in mind?”

“How about Duncan’s Donuts?” says Rick. It’s one of his favourite haunts, because even if the donuts aren’t gourmet, they’re cheap and they taste good, and the coffee’s got that kick to it he likes. And Daryl seems to know where it is, considering they’d met almost in front of the shop. “Does tomorrow work for you?”

“Sure,” says Daryl. There’s a soft rustle of clothing, and Rick can imagine Daryl shrugging, even if he can’t see. “I’m off early tomorrow. Maybe four-thirty?”

“Yeah, that—” Rick says, before remembering to do a quick mental check of his own schedule. He’ll be off work an hour before then. “That’ll work fine.”

In the background, he catches the same, grating voice jeering, _What’s that, Darylena, you got a hot date lined up? Ole Merle’s broads ain’t good enough for you?_

Daryl huffs a frustrated breath. “See you tomorrow,” he says, before hanging up in a hurry, presumably to shut Merle up. Merle grates on Rick’s nerves too—Rick’s pretty sure he’s figured out who the M in _Big M’s Motors_ is now—but neither he nor the deafening sound of the phone crashing into its cradle dampen the grin that’s spread across his face.

“Tomorrow,” Rick echoes, nodding, even if there’s no one on the other end now. 

It’s an hour later before Rick realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling, even as he settles in to another microwaved meal, leftovers from the fried chicken the station ordered two nights ago. 

_A date_ , Rick thinks. Lets himself feel a little giddy at the prospect. A _date_. 

He hadn’t thought about it that way until Merle had mocked Daryl for it, but now that the idea’s in place, he can’t seem to let it go.

Sure, that it’s with another man throws him for a bit of a loop, but it’s not like Rick didn’t experiment a little back in the day. And he just can’t forget the eyes that didn’t look away when Rick met them. That held his gaze, calm and cool, like they were equals in everything they did. That didn’t skitter away guiltily when Rick said _thank you_ and _I mean it_ with every ounce of gratefulness he could manage.

It’s another hour before Rick discovers that he hasn’t taken in a single word of the news he’s watching, or the sports highlights, instead finding himself at the computer, looking up the names of all the colors between blue and grey. 

When he finally finds the exact shade of Daryl’s eyes on an encyclopaedia site, the name of it doesn’t surprise him at all. 

_Shadow blue_ , Rick muses. Daryl had certainly seemed like that, appearing in Rick’s life suddenly, like smoke, silent, before trying to slip away again into shadow. 

And when he finally falls asleep that night, for the first time in ages, Rick dreams not of chocolate-brown eyes and lips the ripeness of berries, but of shadows and smoke and the warmth of strong, broad hands.

~

Rick arrives early at Duncan’s Donuts, even after agonizing over what to wear—he’d gone with his faded Braves sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that hadn’t been laundered within an inch of its life—and settles into the booth he’s snagged. Being early, though, subjects him to the awkward drivel of first date conversations all around him, like _so what do you do_ and _what are you into_ and Rick’s only too glad he and Daryl got most of that over with in their first meeting.

“Hey,” Daryl says, walking up and sliding into the booth across from Rick. He’s wearing a different shirt today, black plaid shorn off at the arms again, and jeans with a crust of blood at the knee, but free of holes. 

If Rick didn’t know any better, he’d think Daryl put real effort into dressing less casually today. Either way, he can’t stop himself from appreciating the way the shirt accentuates Daryl’s arms, but Daryl takes his appreciative gaze to mean something else. 

“Didn’t bring no candy or flowers,” Daryl says, probably thinking Rick’s eyeing his empty hands. “But you didn’t seem the type.”

Rick only grins, because just with Daryl’s arrival, his day’s looking up already. “Me neither,” he says. And with that mutual understanding out of the way, they fall to easy small talk about the weather, the drive here, and the coffee shop, as they open their menus.

There’s a food menu in addition to the ones for drinks and donuts, since the owner dabbles in fast food. But Rick’s not sure how long they’ll be here, or if Daryl wants to stay longer than the time Rick takes to thank him. So he ends up making an order for a honey cruller and a cup of black coffee, which Daryl matches with a Boston Cream and coffee with three sugars on the side. 

_Huh. He’s got a hell of a sweet tooth_ , Rick notes, when their order comes and Daryl takes his time stirring the sugar into his coffee, like he’s making sure it melts just right. 

“So,” Rick starts, clearing his throat, “I, uh. I just wanted to tell you again how glad I am, that you stopped yesterday. To help me. Woulda had my ass handed to me back at the station, if you hadn’t.”

Daryl lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Wasn’t no big deal.” He pauses between a sip and a stir to ask, “Those papers important?”

“You have no _idea_ ,” Rick says, his eyes wide, and that just kicks off a whole conversation about the work he does and why. And even if he can’t share the details of the case he’s working on right now, he tells Daryl about others he’s worked, like ones solved just by two errant fingerprints from a keyboard, or ones that’ve gone cold without a single clue, until years later.

Daryl, for his part, just listens and nods, like he’s actually taking in what Rick tells him. Chimes in from time to time with some of his experiences in the Georgia woods that are consistent with what Rick’s telling him about manhunts they’ve done, both agreeing that _man, rain is a bitch when you’re trackin’ footprints_.

And just like that, they’ve found common ground. Even when the conversation about what Rick does peters out, either one of them’s ready to pick up the slack, when they’re not enjoying the companionable silence.

“So why were you near Duncan’s, anyway?” Rick asks, when Daryl’s finished telling him about his brother’s shop and some of the vehicles they service there. He’s not asking because he’s dying to know, but because he’s just curious, as to why Daryl would be in a joint like that in the first place.

“You mean why would I go near a place that’s crawlin’ with cops and teenagers?” Daryl says, giving Rick that half-smile he’s familiar with by now. “Just gettin’ somethin’ for my brother, Merle. The donuts here…” 

_They’re cheap and they taste good_ , Rick thinks, taking a sip of his coffee. When he looks up, Daryl’s just staring at him, half-smile still curving his lips. Which is when he realizes he’s said it out loud, and at the same time as Daryl. 

“Yeah,” says Daryl, leaning back in his chair. There’s a bigger grin pulling at the edge of his mouth, but still no bigger than a half-moon. “That’s it.” He takes a second to dip his finger into the Boston Cream, and licks the filling from his finger, slow, like he’s making the moment last. Like he’s teasing Rick somehow.

And as Rick watches Daryl’s cheeks hollow around his finger, he has to wonder if it’s completely intentional—especially when Daryl’s eyes flick up to meet Rick’s, his own hooded and dark.

Rick swallows guiltily, and it’s loud enough that Daryl can hear. But he sets the tantalizing image of Daryl sucking down his finger aside, because if Daryl didn’t mean it like _that_ , Rick’s going to look like a fool if he brings it up first.

It’s dark out by the time they’re finished their meal—Rick had added an order of root beers and curly fries to share so they could keep sitting here—and Rick’s blinking hard, trying to fend off sleep, but failing. He’d had a long day at the station after all, and no one had been impressed with his coffee-stained reports from the day before. Still, he’s had a good time here, and found Daryl to be a great listener, talking where it counts and nodding when it’s Rick’s turn to be heard, instead of jumping in to fill the silences or droning on about _himself_.

And he likes this, talking to Daryl; the man’s not full of flighty laughter, doesn’t bat his eyes like a hummingbird, and most of all, isn’t into the heavy-handed flirty touches that some of the waitresses here and the receptionists at the station are. All in all, it’s almost like hanging out with Shane, even if there’s something different about it Rick can’t quite put his finger on.

“Gettin’ late,” Daryl offers finally, when the waitresses start making their rounds for last orders before the kitchen closes. The words hover between them, like neither one of them is ready to acknowledge the fact. Like neither one of them is quite ready to go home yet.

Rick’s wracking his brain for something, anything, to say to Daryl, words that translate into _when can I see you again_ , because he can’t stand for this to just end when they say their goodbyes. Can’t bear the thought of their suddenly being strangers again, and having nothing to do with each other once they leave. 

Then Daryl’s speaking again, and Rick looks up into those shadow blues, thinking he could get lost in them forever if only Daryl would let him, and says very eloquently, “Huh?”

Daryl huffs something close to a laugh. “Your head lost in the clouds there, officer?” and Rick wants to say _No, just in your eyes_ , when Daryl repeats himself. “You said you were into old movies. Westerns, too.”

They’d been talking about old westerns at one point, the topic having come up when Daryl said Rick had looked like a regular Clint Eastwood, with his cowboy hat and gun belt, when Daryl came upon him in the street, all coffee-soaked and miserable. 

_All you’re missin’ now is the beard_ , Daryl had said, flicking fingers at Rick’s jaw. And Rick had thrown his head back and laughed, like he hadn’t in a long time, because no one had ever compared him to a star from the silver screen before. 

_Hope I’m just as handsome_ , Rick had joked, feeling so at ease with Daryl that Rick had winked at him too, as he said it.

And Daryl had watched his expression, wary, before tipping his head to the side, assessing. _Maybe better_ , he’d said, voice real quiet and low, like he was completely serious. He’d let that hang in the air for a moment, and when Rick only blinked at him, wondering if he’d heard it the way Daryl meant it, Daryl changed the subject to ask him what he’d thought of Eastwood’s later work, _The Bridges of Madison County_.

“Yeah?” Rick says now. Clears his throat and tries again. “I mean, yeah. _Hang ‘Em High. Blazing Saddles_. You name it, I’ve probably seen it.”

“They’re…they’re reshowin’ _High Plains Drifter_ at the theatre this Saturday.” Daryl’s got his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, and oddly enough, it’s the one moment he can’t quite meet Rick’s eyes. “Don’t know if you wanna—”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Rick immediately, before remembering that he shouldn’t sound so eager. But by the look of the small near-smile that’s making its way across Daryl’s face, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

“See you at eight, then?” Daryl says. And Rick loves the way he can meet Daryl’s gaze now, the moment Daryl dares look up again. “Gives us some time to talk before the movie.”

“I’ll be there,” Rick beams. 

And even as they leave the coffee shop and go their separate ways, Rick just keeps right on beaming, at nothing and no one, just thinking _I’ll be there_. 

_I’ll be anywhere Daryl wants me to be_.


	3. Reeling It In

~

Rick tries not to think of Saturday as their second date, which it technically _is_ , because it makes him nervous as hell. By the time he arrives at the theatre, he actually has to steal a few napkins from the concession to dab his forehead, lest he look like The Human Waterfall when Daryl shows up.

As it turns out though, he’s got nothing to worry about, because their second outing goes just as well as the first. Smoother, in fact, first, because a movie takes up half of it, and second, because Daryl’s seemed to establish that Rick doesn’t have some evil ulterior motive. That Rick isn’t looking to snoop around his brother’s buried criminal record—which Daryl had revealed by accident—or treat Daryl as the rat for all the things Merle and his buddies get up to when they’re not at the shop.

So he’s a little more liberal with his answers, and this time, when Rick asks Daryl what he gets up to when _he’s_ not at the shop, Daryl’s answers include slightly more detail. Like he’s letting Rick in, grudgingly, but still doing it a little at a time.

“Huntin’,” Daryl answers, when Rick asks him what he gets up to on his weekends off. “Not here, though. Me and Merle, we know a place.” He gestures in a vague direction with his hand, like it’s enough elaboration on the _how_ ’s and _where_ ’s of it. 

All right, so there were still a few things that were like pulling teeth, but some progress was still better than none, Rick decides. Especially where personal details about Daryl’s life were concerned. And it doesn’t take long for Rick to tease the answers from Daryl anyway, gently unwinding him like a spool of golden thread, finding a mine of answers as he goes, with just the right questions. 

It’s how he finds out Daryl’s weapon of choice is a crossbow. That his favourite type of game is deer, even if he’ll take rabbit or squirrel from time to time.

“That’s the best, you know. Bein’ able to cook up some venison.” Daryl’s smile is small, hesitant, like he’s not sure if this kind of thing is up Rick’s alley. “Could even make some burgers with ‘em, if I had to. Make you a better one than _this_.” He pauses, burger halfway to his mouth, as he realizes his mistake. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say…” Daryl takes an exaggerated bite, in apology. “Tastes plenty good already.”

Rick laughs. “It’s all right. The burgers _were_ tastin’ kinda off, anyhow.”

They’d stopped at Joe & Joe Jr.’s BBQ Shack after the movie, because it was close to the theatre and still open, and even if Rick doesn’t think beer and over-seasoned burgers with a side of fries are proper date fare, Daryl doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with it so far.

“Point is,” says Daryl, his eyes hooded as he looks up at Rick, “I could make you a good one.” His shoulders are relaxed, now that he knows Rick hasn’t taken offence to his slip of tongue, and he’s even tipped his chair back, balancing it on its two back legs, something that affords Rick a more flattering view of his torso. A peek of skin through the places his shirt’s bunched together at the buttons. 

Rick swallows, not sure if they’re still talking about burgers, or venison, or something else entirely. “You, uh,” he tries, searching for some kind of conversation they haven’t covered, something that’ll distract him from the way Daryl’s nipples are straining through his shirt. “You sound like you’re pretty good at anythin’ to do with woodcraft. Huntin’. Trappin’. What about fishin’?”

“Fishin’?” Daryl snorts. “That’s one of the _first_ things I had to learn from Merle.” He slathers a fry with ketchup before tossing it in his mouth. “There’s a pond for it eight miles west of here. Can get a decent haul of trout if they’re bitin’.”

“I used to fish with my dad,” Rick says wistfully. “Haven’t had much time for it lately, though.” Rick hasn’t had much time for anything these days, besides work and the few obligatory beers with the guys at the station. 

“Could take you to that pond sometime,” Daryl says. “If you want.” He’s let his chair back down, the legs sitting flat on the ground as he nudges another fry into ketchup. Lets the invitation hang in the air, like he’s just waiting for Rick to bat it back, either way. 

Rick’s shaking his head, even if his heart beats double time in his chest with a cry of _yes, do the thing, say yes_. “I couldn’t—I mean, it’s somethin’ you do with your brother. I couldn’t just—”

“Ain’t like me and Merle are joined at the hip,” Daryl says, raising a brow. And now, _now_ he looks straight at Rick, his eyes dark, and there must be something hypnotic about them, because Rick finds himself nodding a _yes_ in return. “Good,” says Daryl, flicking what’s left of his fries into a napkin, like he was just absently eating them so he’d have something else to focus on besides Rick. “You free tomorrow?”

 _Tomorrow_. Rick hadn’t had anything planned, besides ruining his sleep schedule with a bout of sleeping in, and maybe a trip to the grocery store. “Yeah,” he says, tongue darting out to run over his lower lip, before he realizes what he’s doing, and stops. 

“Pick you up at eight tomorrow morning, then,” says Daryl. He finishes off what’s left of his burger and licks away the sauce from his hand, one finger at a time, something he _has_ to be doing on purpose.

“You have a car?” Rick asks, surprised. They’d never talked about it, but of course Daryl had to have some way of getting around—he hadn’t flown to the theatre, or ridden a jet-pack there. 

“I got a bike,” says Daryl, like that explains everything. “The hell you think I work on every day?” He slaps down more than enough money for both their meals, before Rick can even argue _I’ve got this_ , the concept of fairness somehow having crept into Rick’s mind; Daryl had gotten their movie tickets, and Rick had only bought him donuts and coffee and snack food before this—and that’d been as a thank you, so Daryl honestly doesn’t owe him _anything_.

Rick only discovers he’s been gaping like a fish when Daryl grunts, like the cost of the meal was no big deal and that he’ll take off even faster if Rick tries to fight him on it. So Rick just sighs and figures their next meal will be on him. 

“Eight,” Daryl says, decisive, as he stands up to leave. Like Rick doesn’t have any more say in the time than he does their mode of transportation tomorrow. He jabs the air in front of Rick, a clear motion of _you better not forget_.

“Eight,” Rick echoes with a nod, penning his address onto a napkin for Daryl. It’s not unlike the first time Daryl had scrawled his phone number onto one for Rick. 

And just like that, they’re set for another date— _outing_ , Rick tells himself. _Outing_.

Daryl’s only going to show him a few things about fishing. Let him relive his childhood with his father, in a way. Nothing more than that. 

But even as he and Daryl part ways for the night, Rick still leaves Joe’s BBQ Shack grinning, because for the first time in a while, he knows he’s got _plans_ on the weekend. Plans with a _friend_.

And hell, if Rick plays his cards right, it just might become more than that.

~

Despite the one mishap in which Rick had nearly flown off Daryl’s bike for fear of actually holding _onto_ Daryl, their first outing into the wilds of Georgia goes fairly well. If ‘ten minutes outside of town’ and ‘nowhere near an actual forest or lake’ could be considered _the wild_.

“All right,” Daryl says, nudging the kickstand of his motorcycle down, after they’ve pulled into a bumpy asphalt lot with actual painted lines for parking. “We’re here.”

Rick blinks. “I don’t get it,” he says, looking around at where they’ve stopped. There are a few thickets of scraggly pines bordering the edges of the parking lot, but those hardly a forest make. And in the distance, he catches the glint of a man-made body of water, barely bigger than two mall fountains put together. “This isn’t a lake. This isn’t even a _pond_.”

“Sure it is,” says Daryl. He jerks a nod toward the lopsided sign ahead, hanging by a feeble wire hook: _Bubba’s Stocked Trout Pond_. The word _pond_ is barely hanging on by a rotted peg itself. 

“But I thought we were…” Rick trails off, still trying to understand just why they’re here. “I mean, aren’t these ponds for kids?” They’re the kind that’s usually filled with fish so kids are guaranteed to get a bite on their line.

Daryl fixes him with a look, one that shows he isn’t going to take any sass from Rick. “I’m gonna teach you the basics again first,” he says. “Ain’t no one ever jumped out of a plane without knowin’ how the ‘chutes work.” He makes his way toward the dilapidated cabin marked _Rentals_. “Now c’mon. Or the only thing you’re gonna catch with your mouth open like that is _flies_.”

Rick follows Daryl to the cabin grudgingly, dragging the small cooler they’ve brought with them behind him. They’re greeted by a man at the counter, the living embodiment of a redneck, his red and white mesh cap pulled loose over a balding head, wearing a set of hunting plaids to match. There’s a counter in the way, but Rick’s pretty sure the countertop’s hiding what must be an impressive paunch down below, the result of years of beer belly accumulation.

“Daryl,” the man nods, thumbing at a page of his magazine. It looks to be an old issue of _Field & Stream_, from what Rick can tell of the pictures. “Ain’t you seen you in ages. How’s Merle?”

“Still alive,” Daryl shrugs. He gets another nod in return, like his answer is fare enough to gain passage into whatever secret club’s been set up here. “You got the usual?” He jerks a thumb toward Rick. “Teachin’ him how to fish. Square one.”

Rick spares a brief moment to wonder why Daryl hadn’t said _Teachin’_ my friend _how to fish_ , before he realizes where Daryl’s placed him on the totem pole of fishing prowess. “I know how to fish,” Rick says loudly, sullen. Sure, he’d been five when he learned, but—

Daryl only graces Rick’s declaration with a grunt. “Sure you did,” he says. “Maybe—” He stops to give Rick a glance from head to toe, appraising, even though Rick can’t help but hope it’s an appreciative glance too. “—three decades ago.”

Rick puts every ounce of venom he can muster into the glare he throws at Daryl.

“ _Well_ , you came to the right place,” says the man at the counter, snapping his magazine shut, and beaming at them with a forced kind of cheer. Like this isn’t an argument or strange lovers’ spat that he wants to get in between. He plucks two poles from the rack behind him and slaps a bucket on the counter. Dumps a couple of hooks, weights, a coil of line, and a bagged spadeful of worms into it. “All right, you’re all set,” he says. And to Rick, he adds, “You’re in good hands. Daryl’s the best we got here.”

Daryl tosses a couple of crumpled bills onto the counter in return, before gathering their supplies. “Keep the change,” he calls over his shoulder, getting a casual salute from the man in return.

“So?” Rick says, as he jogs to keep up with Daryl on their way to the pond. “‘Daryl’s the best we got?’ What’s that about?” He grins, knowing there’s got to be _some_ kind of story behind that.

“Well, ain’t you a Nosy Nora today,” huffs Daryl. “You here to fish, or interrogate me about my life story?” He prods a pole at Rick’s chest. 

“Just wanted to know how you came to be the best at somethin’ here,” Rick says, setting down their cooler. He takes the pole and the coil of line Daryl hands him. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

Daryl sighs, and after digging around for a hook from the bucket, he ties it to a length of line, motioning for Rick to do the same. “Wasn’t nothin’ special,” he says finally. “Some of Merle’s friends’ kids wanted to learn how to fish. Used to take ‘em here.” He pauses. “Ain’t got as much time now, since we got the repair shop in town.”

“That’s…” Rick starts. So Daryl had experience with kids. That was something. It makes Rick wonder how Daryl would get along with Rick’s niece and nephew, and something about the thought warms a small, hardened coal in his belly. “That’s nice of you,” he manages, in the end. 

Daryl snorts. “I’m movin’ to the big leagues now,” he says. “Teachin’ a _big_ kid how to fish.” He arches a brow at Rick, and _yes_ , that’s the tiniest grin tugging at his mouth. 

Rick returns the grin with a laugh of his own. “Better watch it,” he says, nudging Daryl’s elbow. “This big kid will be catchin’ more fish than _you_ , before you know it.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but the grin doesn’t fade, even as he reaches out to help Rick tie the hook into his line. Teaches him to attach a weight to it, so he can tell when he’s got a bite. Shows him the right way—there’s the _right_ way, and then there’s the _dumbass_ way, according to Daryl—to thread a worm through the hook, as bait.

“All right,” says Daryl, after they’ve made it through the ordeal of baiting their hooks, the only casualties being Rick’s fingers—a few cuts where the hook had caught flesh—and half their supply of bagged worms. They’re standing by the edge of the pond, Daryl showing him the best way to go about this. “You gotta hold your rod like this first.” He demonstrates with his own rod, making it seem like he’s got a whip in his hand, but his grip’s just loose enough that he isn’t making a fist around the rod. “Good,” he says, when Rick’s got the hang of it. Daryl stands farther out as he brings his arm back and casts his line out into the water. “Now you’ll wanna bring your arm out, like this,” he says, making the easy gliding motion again for Rick’s benefit. “Like you’re skippin’ a rock or somethin’.”

Rick nods, determined. 

And casts his line straight into the grass behind them, nearly hooking Daryl’s vest in the process.

“The hell was _that_?” Daryl says, incredulous. He checks his clothing for tears, before abandoning his own rod on the side and stalking toward Rick. “Feels like I gotta do everythin’ around here. Like _this_ ,” he says, his hands coming around Rick to support Rick’s hand on the rod. 

The thing Rick’s starting to learn is that even if Daryl sounds mad, he isn't actually, and it just goes to prove Rick’s theory when the hands Daryl wraps around Rick’s are surprisingly gentle.

“There you go,” Daryl says softly, like he’s calming a skittish horse. His arms come further up around Rick’s chest. “Like that.”

Rick’s about to say it only takes one hand to show him how to cast the line, when Daryl’s other hand slips to his hip, to steady him, somehow. “Gotta angle your body like this. That’s right,” says Daryl, when Rick’s somehow reached this mystical angle Daryl’s talking about. “Just like _this_.”

“I…I think I’ve got this,” Rick says, his throat tight. Daryl’s hand is distractingly warm against his hip, and the grip of his other hand on Rick’s is just the right amount of rough to make Rick’s heart skip every other beat.

Daryl only shifts his grip, repositioning Rick’s hand on the rod. “Nah,” he says, his breath warm against Rick’s neck. “Think I better stick around for a bit. In case you decide to hook yourself a wild Daryl instead of a fish.”

And maybe Daryl doesn’t realize what he’s said, because his breathing doesn’t change at all, but Rick’s pulse goes into overdrive, because he finds himself thinking he sure as he hell wouldn’t mind catching a wild Daryl _instead_.

For a moment, he’s glad for the fact that they’re here this early in the morning, because there are few other people at this time. Rick doesn’t know how he’d deal with the hammering of his heart, or more importantly, the tightening feeling in his briefs, if the place was teeming with people like it would be in late afternoon or evening.

They stay like that for another ten minutes or so, but to Rick it feels like ten seconds, and as soon as Daryl slides away and says, “All right, just cast your line like I showed you, to another spot now,” Rick can’t help but miss the heat of Daryl’s hands against his own, or his hip, or his waist.

He’s about to make some excuse, like _can you show me how to cast a line again_ , or _think my line’s caught on something_ , at the risk of sounding stupid, when he sees the weight that’d been floating in the water dip down a little. Like something’s latched on. 

“Daryl,” Rick says. “I think I got a bite?” It’s halfway between a whisper and a question, like he’s not quite sure. It’d be embarrassing to have called Daryl over if the line was just snagged in a loose cluster of rocks, or worse, an old boot. 

Daryl just grunts at him, focused on casting his own line and waiting. 

_There_. Another tug, this one insistent. “Think I got a bite,” Rick says a little louder, surer this time. 

“Did you?” Daryl says. And maybe it’s the light of the sun playing tricks on Rick, because it makes Daryl’s usual half-smile look wider than it usually is. He’s not looking at the line either, just looking at Rick, his expression oddly thoughtful and soft. “Good.”

Rick wonders how Daryl confirmed the bite without a single glance at the line, but before he can ask, the thought’s lost as Daryl comes to stand behind him, one hand wound around Rick’s waist again.

“All right,” says Daryl. “You got your bite. Now reel it in, nice and steady. Arms up like _this_ ,” he says, adjusting Rick’s elbows. “Keep a little pressure on your line. That’s it.” His breath is far too warm on the nape of Rick’s neck again, and Rick takes a moment to let his eyes drift shut, to enjoy this closeness for what it is. “Nice and steady.”

Daryl’s left the one hand steadying Rick’s fishing rod, and the other— _oh_ , that’s it right there, sliding down to sit over Rick’s hip. Rick’s breath hitches in his chest, and he nearly drops the rod, but Daryl catches it before it slips from Rick’s hand and steadies it for him again.

“Easy,” says Daryl, his voice pitched soft and low, like he’s calming a frightened animal. “ _Easy_.” Like he’s the _Rick_ whisperer. And isn’t he just.

Rick comes out of the whole ordeal with one pound and a half trout, a wriggling, fighting thing that Daryl has to knock out with a rock to keep a hold of. They put it in the small cooler that they’ve brought with them, and even if Rick doesn’t get another bite for the rest of the afternoon, it’s enough that he’s got the one. 

It’s enough that he’d gotten a warm squeeze to the shoulder and a _good job_ from Daryl, like the congratulations actually _meant_ something. And while he keeps on going with baiting his hook, casting out a line and waiting for a bite, Rick takes any opportunity he has to watch Daryl discreetly. 

He’d wondered why they didn’t go to an actual lake, instead of coming to this place meant for kids and their families. But when he remembers the lone fish in the cooler, how much fun he’d had getting it out of the water, he thinks of Daryl and his mantra of _basics first_. The idea that maybe here, Rick had an actual chance of catching a fish, instead of being frustrated and never wanting to fish again. 

“Here,” Daryl says, interrupting Rick’s thoughts, just before their day here’s done. He hands the rod over to Rick when Rick comes to stand near him. “There’s a bite on this one. Bring it up, just like I showed you.”

He’d thought Daryl was being sweet before, making sure Rick had his share of fun in fishing today, but this only further proves the point, because this is Daryl figuring Rick would be bored, having gone without a bite for so long. “It’s your catch,” Rick says. “I wouldn’t wanna—”

“It’s _ours_ now,” Daryl says, like him saying it makes it so, as he levels a glare at Rick. There’s no heat behind it though, and Rick knows not to argue, especially when Daryl winds his arms around Rick again. Rick shuts his eyes and draws a tight breath through his nose. Lord give him strength.

They bring this fish up a lot faster this time, and even if Rick wishes Daryl’s hands would linger just a little longer, wishes he could still feel the heat around his waist, his hips, he finds he can’t complain for long, because when they make it back to Daryl’s bike, it’ll be _Rick_ who gets to put his arms around _Daryl_.

“So? How was it?” Daryl asks, as they’re laying out and reorganizing their catch in the cooler. There’s something tentative in his voice, like he’s worried about which way Rick’s answer will go. 

Rick secures the lid, and as much as he’d like to see Daryl heft the weight of it into his arms, to watch muscles flex and move beneath his shorn sleeves, he bends down to take the cooler himself. Daryl had caught the lion’s share of the fish, after all. “I liked it,” Rick says, figuring it’s as enthusiastic as he can sound without seeming _too_ excited. “Think I’d come here again. If you were up for it.”

Daryl waits until they’re out of earshot of the counter, after Rick’s paid for the fish, to say, “If there’s gonna be a next time, I’ll take you somewhere we won’t have to pay for the damn fish. Hell, we won’t even need a license.”

“Off-license fishing? _Daryl_ ,” Rick says, raising a brow. He makes a faint noise of disapproval, and when Daryl’s mouth falls open, like he’s only just remembered he’s talking to a cop, Rick just laughs and bumps Daryl’s hip with his own. “Gotcha!” he says. He dances out of reach, cooler and all, when Daryl rolls his eyes and reaches out to swat Rick’s shoulder.

When their catch—Rick with the one, and Daryl with five, the last of which was kind of Rick’s too—is safely secured in the motorcycle’s small trunk, they get ready to make their way back to town. Rick just gets on behind Daryl, like it’s second nature now, slipping on the helmet Daryl’s lent him because he _should_. Puts his arms around Daryl, because he _can_.

Revels in the strange sense of freedom he finds on the open road, with the wind rustling his clothes and whispering through his hair.

They must be halfway back to town, when Daryl turns quickly to grin at him, and maybe it’s euphoria over their decent catch, or maybe Daryl’s just in a good mood, but he says something at Rick and waits, hopeful. 

“Sorry?” Rick has to lift the visor of the helmet Daryl’s lent him, to hear. It’d been a little stuffy inside, but it’s Daryl’s and Rick can’t bring himself to mind, especially when he can breathe in the smell of Daryl through it. Soak in the heat he’s giving off as Rick presses against him. 

“I said, your place or mine?” Daryl calls. 

_Oh_. Rick blinks, confused. Were they at this stage already? Not that he’d _object_ , certainly not, but was Daryl really suggesting what Rick thought he was? “Uh,” Rick manages, trying to play for time. “I didn’t catch what you—”

“Your place,” Daryl says again, slower now, and with all seriousness, his half-smile having faded a little at the corners, “or mine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I envisioned their fishing date as a Pokemon encounter: "A wild Daryl appears! Rick uses Line Cast! It’s super effective!"


	4. In Your Court

~

Rick has to work to keep his mouth from falling open, because as forward as he thought he could be, Daryl’s got the jump on him on this one. And he’s just in the midst of fumbling out an answer when Daryl notices his silence.

“Gotta pick a place to cook the fish,” says Daryl. “You wanna try the ‘fruits of your labour’ and all, don’t you?” He eases the bike into a turn, before adding, “Figured we could have ourselves an old-fashioned fry-up, if you wanted.”

_Oh_ , Rick thinks. So Daryl hadn’t been asking—while _Rick_ had just leaped ahead to—

To the wrong conclusions, clearly. 

He’s caught somewhere between relief at having given himself time to respond, or embarrassment at having completely misinterpreted Daryl’s question, but manages to gather his scrambled thoughts enough to answer.

“I’m fine with either,” Rick says. He huffs out a breath through his teeth, a shaky exhale of relieved laughter.

Daryl _hmms_ thoughtfully, before saying, “Could go to mine, I guess. Got all the pans and stuff we’ll need.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Rick agrees. He hasn’t exactly been keeping up on doing the dishes and the washing at his place; the last thing he needs is for Daryl to come over and find that they’ve got to clear the mountain of dishes piled up in the sink, before they can even cook.

“Thing is,” Daryl adds, hesitant, and Rick can feel the coil of tension that’s wound tight throughout Daryl’s body, “Merle might come back while we’re there. And he’ll take half our catch if he feels like it.”

Rick laughs. “I know what that’s like,” he says. He’s had too much experience with his sister stealing bits off his plate, if not whole portions of his food. “Think we’ll manage.”

“Suit yourself,” Daryl grunts. “But don’t be blamin’ me if you ain’t full, because he _stole your fish_.”

After another ten minutes, they finally arrive at Daryl’s place, and while Rick wouldn’t describe it as completely decrepit, the house is certainly rundown; the beige siding’s starting to curl up in places near the base of the house, the stucco’s stained brown with god knows what, and all the windows and doors are lined with rotting wood trim.

“Ain’t as bad as it looks,” Daryl offers, knocking on a side panel as he unlocks the door. Like it’s proof of how undeniably sturdy the house is. 

Rick just nods, hoping the house won’t collapse while they’re inside. 

The interior’s as homey as it can be, with a couple of sagging grey armchairs, an ashtray on the scuffed knee-high coffee table, and an old television perched on two wood crates pushed together, though Daryl leads Rick onward through a small kitchen door that swings inward.

“We’ll set up here,” says Daryl, as Rick sets the cooler down on the kitchen table. It’s a round, wooden thing with a wobbly leg that’s got a few mismatched chairs around it. They were probably picked up at the Goodwill, but as Daryl flicks on the warm overhead lights and flashes him a hesitant smile, an honest _here it is, this is home_ , Rick can’t help but feel how cozy the place is, compared with the empty luxury of his own place. As if simply having Daryl’s company here with him makes all the difference.

They make quick work of unloading the day’s catch, and when Daryl starts taking out knives and the necessary pans, he shows Rick where to find plates and utensils to set the table.

“I oughta cook for you too,” Rick says, as Daryl waves away the cutlery Rick grabs for him. It’s the first time he’s had ingredients this fresh to work with, and really, he owes it to Daryl. Because Daryl had taken care of the movie, the meal following it, and the fishing rentals, so it was only fair—

“Next time,” says Daryl, setting a knife down on the kitchen counter. “Just take care of settin’ the table for now.” He must catch the faint downturn to Rick’s mouth, because his voice is lower, quieter, when he adds, “This ain’t about keepin’ score, Rick.”

A tiny flower of warmth blossoms in Rick’s chest, at the prospect of there _being_ a next time, along with the thought of how oddly domestic this feels, this puttering around the kitchen and wending their way around each other. “You’re right,” Rick says, breathing out a laugh as he lays out a set of plates. Finds himself letting go of the small pettiness that he _had_ been keeping score, in a way, and tries to focus on the moment here instead. 

The rest of the time’s spent navigating around each other in the little kitchen. And even if they start off bumping into one another to get ingredients or seasoning, they quickly learn to streamline their movements, making clear designations of who stays where, until they’re at the point where Daryl will just _look_ in the direction of the pepper, before Rick’s pressing it into his hand. Or Rick will gesture at the garlic he needs to grate and Daryl will toss a clove at him, having already anticipated what he needs.

It doesn’t take long before their dinner’s ready, and though Daryl scrapes the fried fish onto their plates, he takes extra care while plating the one Rick’s caught. “There,” he says, arranging a tiny garnish of green onion rings on it and patting it with a spatula, careful. “That one’s yours.” Like it’s the meat of some rare, golden goose, and he’s presenting it as a gift to the gods.

Rick couldn’t care either way; just spending time with Daryl like this is a blessing in itself, because it’s pleasant company, instead of that of a television and a beer. And even if the chairs, like the table, are a little wobbly, Rick can’t bring himself to mind. Not when Daryl tosses him a small tilt of his lips that Rick will take as a smile, as they sit down to try their hard-earned bounty. 

They’re just starting to dig into the real meat of their dinner, when the same loud, obnoxious voice Rick encountered on the phone floats through the front door. 

“I’m home, baby brother! What’s that you got cookin’?”

“Trout,” Daryl calls toward the kitchen door. “Oh, and—uh.” He looks back at Rick, uncertain. Rick gives him an encouraging smile, and even if Daryl doesn’t quite return it, the darkness in his eyes fades a little. “We got company tonight.”

“ _Company_?” Merle barges into the tiny kitchen, the poor swinging door behind him taking up a frantic creaking rhythm. “ _You_ ,” he says, narrowing his eyes at Rick. “You Daryl’s new friend?”

Rick shrugs. “Guess so.”

Merle takes his measure through another set of shifty glances, and when his gaze reaches Rick’s gun belt—Rick wears it most days, habit really—Merle groans. “For cryin’ out loud, Daryl, your new friend’s a _cop_?”

“He’s all right, Merle,” Daryl says. “Ain’t here to make trouble.” He continues to eat, even if Rick can feel the minor tremor in his leg from where their knees are touching. 

Rick nudges his leg against Daryl’s, gentle, from beneath the table. A silent way of saying _I’m here_. He’s rewarded by the tiniest uptick of Daryl’s lips, a motion that lets Rick know how much his reassurance is appreciated.

“Ain’t _you_ calm as a cucumber,” Merle frowns. “Well, it’s your lucky day,” he adds, switching tracks. He reaches over Rick and yanks two of Daryl’s trout from his plate. “’Cause the tax collector’s in town.”

Rick’s pretty sure Merle means to make a joke about how the tax collector is his mouth, even if the tax is really just two of Daryl’s trout, but can’t think of the punch line, because Merle’s mouth just moves soundlessly until he just stalks away with an _aw, hell_.

Regardless, Rick waits until Merle’s wandered out of the kitchen, which he looked like he’d do as soon as he determined Rick wasn’t going to bust him for drugs—ones he probably took this morning, considering the glassiness of his eyes—before pushing half his share onto Daryl’s plate. 

“Here,” says Rick. “You did the lion’s share of the work. You oughta get the same share of food.”

At that, the sweet uptilt of Daryl’s lips widens considerably, and Daryl tosses half the share Rick’s given him back onto Rick’s plate. A little _fair’s fair_ before he knocks his knee into Rick’s, deliberate this time, like a tiny touch of—of what, exactly? Affection? Camaraderie? 

Rick isn’t totally sure, but he’s soon forgotten why exactly Merle’s left them alone, the thoughts of _he probably went to hide whatever’s left of the drugs lying around_ slipping away, as he takes in the state of Daryl’s cheeks, rosy from the heat of the kitchen. The brightness of his eyes, from actually being in his element, preparing and cooking their fish like he’d done it for years. And there’s a wider smile creeping across Daryl’s face now, one he’s trying to hide behind a hand and failing to, as he watches Rick. A secret one, as if he’s proud of Rick, or proud _for_ him. For sharing the fish? For managing to catch them in the first place?

Rick can’t tell which, but before he can ask Daryl, the moment’s gone. 

It’s broken by the sound of creaking agony from an armchair, the pop of a beer tab, and greedy gulping followed by an earth-shattering belch. The television sparks to life in the middle of a conversation about which movie stars have the worst nose jobs, and cycles through some other mind-numbing bullshit about antique cars and storage units, things Rick might’ve watched himself too, until now.

_Nice_ , Rick had wanted to say of the marvellous change in their ambience. But he can’t bring himself to, because despite Merle’s crass interruptions, Daryl’s expression hasn’t changed at all; he just keeps watching Rick between bites, like his presence here is a surprise. Like someone actually wanting to share the same space with Daryl is a wonder in itself.

“You know what’d make this night better?” Rick says instead, when Daryl’s finished scarfing down what’s left of their dinner. “Couple of cold ones. Dessert. Maybe a movie before we call it a day.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “Merle took the last of the beer, and he’s hoggin’ the television. He ain’t gonna budge an inch, not when—” Daryl wrinkles his nose, “— _Storage Wars_ is on.”

Rick’s anticipated this problem though, and he’s ready to counter it in a heartbeat. “Why don’t we go to mine, then?” he suggests. “I’ve got a few beers in the fridge. Maybe half a thing of cake. We can make it work.”

Daryl ponders that for a moment, before deciding it’s an arrangement that’ll do well enough. “All right,” he says.

They spend a few minutes cleaning up in the kitchen, mainly at Rick’s insistence, because he doesn’t want to leave a mess, and because some tiny part of him warns him that his first action in Daryl’s house shouldn’t be to piss his brother off. Especially if Rick’s looking to spend time with Daryl again.

“Merle,” Daryl calls, when they’re ready to leave for Rick’s. “I’m gonna head out for a bit.” His lip curls when they exit the kitchen and find Merle leaning forward in his seat, beer in hand as he ogles whatever woman’s flavour of the week on _Housewives of Some City or Another_ , as Rick’s termed it. All the cities and people ran together in the end, anyway.

Merle waves them off with a careless flick of his hand, his eyes never leaving the television. “Need Daryl to open up shop early tomorrow, so you make sure he’s back before midnight, Officer Friendly. Or Cin-Daryl-ella will have hell to pay.” He pauses, and frowns to himself. “Cin-dare-ella? Daryl-ella?” 

Rick and Daryl have made their way to the door, before Merle gives up on his terrible portmanteaus and simply yells, “Whatever. _Midnight_!”

Daryl snorts and gives Rick a _look at the shit I have to deal with_ eyeroll, but Rick simply laughs. “Will do,” he calls back. Raises a brow at Daryl, and with a flourish at the door, stage-whispers, “After you, Cin-dare-ella.”

“Shut up,” Daryl growls, his cheeks flushed the most becoming shade of rose. He pushes Rick out the door. “Or you’re gonna find yourself _walkin’_ home, Officer Smartass.”

~

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get to Rick’s, and before long, Rick’s taking a quick inventory of the fridge, while Daryl’s out in his living room, fiddling with the disc player, Rick having steered him away from the kitchen and the sink’s giant dish mountain.

There are still four beers left in the six-pack Rick bought the week before, and Rick thanks the heavens above that he hadn’t decided to guzzle them all in one go when he’d been doing his _Indiana Jones_ marathon. He hooks his fingers into the empty rings of the six-pack, and with his other hand, manoeuvres what’s left of the pound cake out of the fridge, past some questionable lunch meats and leftover pizza that’s dry and curled in its Domino’s box.

“Hmm.” Rick frowns, inspecting the cake packaging as he makes his way to the living room. Sets the beer on the coffee table. “Got some good news and bad news.”

“Bad news first,” says Daryl, flipping through the menus of the DVD. Rick had let him choose the movie, and the disc Daryl’s set inside is the special edition of _Roman Holiday_. At Rick’s arched brow at his choice, Daryl simply shrugs. “What. It’s _funny_. We did a Western last time, ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little variety.”

Rick only shakes his head and laughs, because Daryl’s full of surprises. “I was just gonna say, I think the cake’s expired.” He jiggles the pack of properly chilled, non-expired beer on the table. “Least there’s some _good_ news?”

Daryl snatches up the package of pound cake and squints at it, as if he can will it back to being a fresh, whole cake again through sheer staring. “Nah,” he says eventually, setting it back down. “Only expired yesterday. It’s still good.” As an extra measure, he lifts the foil flap keeping the box closed and checks. “No mold, see?”

“Well,” Rick says evenly, “if you’re all right with it, I guess we can eat it.” He knows there are always a few extra days past the expiry one can still eat food for, anyway. 

They’re both too lazy to grab a knife, and take turns ripping chunks out of the pound cake as the movie plays. It’s cozy there on the couch, Rick decides, comfortably settled in his corner of the loveseat. Except as the movie progresses, the corners of _yours_ and _mine_ start blurring, and they end up inching closer to each other, their elbows brushing together, then their knees, until they’re almost sprawled against each other on the couch.

Halfway through the movie, Rick has to fight to keep his eyelids open, because it’s been a long day, but in the end, he gives in. Closes his eyes for just a moment. After all, as long as Daryl’s still enjoying the movie, it shouldn’t make a difference. 

It’s the swell of music in the closing scenes that wakes Rick up, and a moment more before he realizes he’s been dozing on Daryl’s shoulder. In fact, he’s curled into Daryl’s side, his arms crossed, knees tucked into his chest, like his body’s recognized Daryl as a source of warmth and comfort and decided to cuddle into him. And sometime during Rick’s nap, Daryl must’ve shrugged out of his vest, because it’s pulled to Rick’s neck, covering him like a small leather blanket.

“Oh,” Rick blinks, still trying to get his bearings. He stretches his feet out, then his arms, and yawns. “Didn’t mean to crowd into your half of the couch there.” Shifts a minute inch away, just to maintain a friendly distance, before handing back Daryl’s vest. “Sorry.”

“Wasn’t nothin’,” Daryl shrugs, looping his arms through his vest again. It should mean something that he hadn’t tensed under Rick’s touch, it really should. But there’s something that’s been circling Rick’s thoughts ever since they came back here for the movie, that Rick needs to address before he lets it slip away.

And that’s the fact that the impetus is on Rick to do something now, something more than just inviting Daryl over for a cold one and cake. Daryl’s invited him to the movies, to fishing, and even over to his place, despite the fact that his brother had come home while they were there and crashed their little party. So the ball’s clearly in Rick’s court now. And he knows better than to just drop it, because Daryl is the best thing that’s happened to him in months—hell, maybe the last couple _years_.

Daryl’s about to move away, to shift over to the other side of the couch before things get decidedly awkward, but Rick catches his elbow without thinking and holds _on_. 

“I…” Rick tries, before realizing that they’re past the initial _thank you_ ’s for Daryl’s kindness on the road. Beyond the even exchanges for dinner. That he’s run out of reasons to meet with Daryl again, unless he does something, _says_ something, to keep this ember between them glowing. “I’d sure like to see you again,” Rick says, opting for complete and utter honesty.

Daryl simply blinks at him, his mouth falling open in a half-formed _o_ of surprise. 

_Shit_. There was honesty, and then there was bludgeoning someone with the blunt end of a butcher knife. And Rick’s pretty sure he’s just done the latter. He curls in on himself on the couch, wondering if it’s possible to fold himself into a speck and wink right out of existence, so he won’t have to deal with the embarrassment.

“I’d like that too,” Daryl says, surprising him. It’s said so quietly that Rick’s not even sure he heard right.

“Yeah?” Rick smiles, cautious, in case he’d heard wrong. God, he hopes he didn’t. Did Daryl just say he—

“Yeah,” nods Daryl. “ _Yeah_ ,” he says again, with more conviction this time.

It’s here that Rick notices Daryl hasn’t moved an inch from where Rick tugged him back to, and it’s a bolstering thought, one that lets Rick charge ahead on whatever it is he’s started here. “I’m free most evenings, unless I get called in,” he says. “So maybe when you’re done at the shop…if you wanna come over and watch a movie together, we could.”

“Been waitin’ for _High Noon_ to come back to the theatre,” Daryl admits. “Ain’t seen it around yet.”

“I’ve got that one right there,” Rick says, pointing to the upper right corner of his wooden TV shelf, where he keeps the older tapes. He knows he could’ve just gotten up to point out the movie to Daryl, but he’s too warm to get up, and it feels like the tiniest shift here could disturb the cozy equilibrium they’ve built up between them. As if the moment either of them moves away, the magic will be dispelled. “How’s next Wednesday work for you?”

“Think I can get away for _one_ evening,” Daryl says, huffing a laugh. They stay there on the couch like that, Rick’s hand curled into the crook of Daryl’s elbow, for another minute, two, before Daryl says, “I better get goin’. Or Merle’s gonna plague me with goddamn Cinderella jokes for all of next week.”

“Right,” Rick says, biting his lip. “Right.” He walks Daryl out to his bike, oddly sorry to see him leave so soon. “Well, good night then,” Rick says, his hand resting on the handlebar of Daryl’s bike. Like he doesn’t want to let go yet. 

Like he doesn’t want to let _Daryl_ go yet.

Daryl, for his part, doesn’t start the engine or nudge away the kickstand of his bike, like he’s waiting for something too, and Rick wonders if they’re possibly waiting for the same thing. But then thoughts of _maybe it’s too soon_ and _maybe I’m wrong_ start circling again and they wait there, simply blinking and breathing in the silence between them. 

Rick could do it; he could lean in and touch his lips to Daryl’s, just to _try_. But there’d be consequences if Rick’s misread the situation, and none of them good. 

“Well,” Rick manages, patting the handlebar. He reaches up to pat Daryl on the shoulder too, the most contact he’ll allow for now. Swallows around the odd knot forming in his throat. “ _Well_.”

Daryl releases a long, slow breath, like it’s one he’s been holding, and says, “I…I should get goin’. You know how Merle gets. Don’t need no princess jokes for the next week.” He rolls his eyes as he starts his engine. “Daryl-ella. Dar-iel.”

Rick snorts a laugh at ‘Dariel’, familiar with Ariel’s story through his niece’s multiple re-watches of _The Little Mermaid_ , though the thought of Daryl as a merman is a tempting one indeed. He thinks Daryl would be just as at home in the sea as he is on land, because that’s how Daryl is. Just adapts to his environment, the way a chameleon blends into its surroundings.

“Yeah,” Rick says finally. “I’ll see you Wednesday.” He hates himself for how _hopeful_ that sounds, but the feeling’s dispelled when Daryl nods. 

“Wednesday,” Daryl agrees. “I’ll come by after closin’ up shop.” He reaches out to pat Rick’s belly, once, before prodding the kickstand on his bike and sailing off into the night. And when Daryl looks back, just the once, Rick makes sure to wave, that Daryl can see him. That he’s still here.

Rick watches Daryl ride away until his taillight, a wink of crimson brightness, disappears around the corner. He’s left with the distinct feeling that he’s missed a cue somewhere, that Daryl really _had_ given him an opening of some sort, after all. But whether it’s real or imagined, it’s far too soon anyway, and Rick can’t stand to lose him when they’ve only just begun to develop what’s there between them. 

So he heads back into the house and switches off the porch light, deciding that his game plan will be the same as it’s always been, for everything else in his life: he’ll watch, and he’ll wait, and he’ll take decisive action when the moment’s just _right_.


	5. Stars In The Southern Sky

~

Before long, Rick finds himself spending at least one evening a week with Daryl, just making their way through Rick’s collection of movies, from old black and white films to color contemporaries. And he loves how it’s only Daryl he can hold the popcorn bowl out to, with a Tootsie pop hidden inside, and say _Well, do you feel lucky, punk?_ and get a laugh in return.

It’s also only Daryl who breaks Rick’s heart with the simplest of observations about their movies. 

_It’d be nice if you could move on up in the world, just from changin’ the way you talk_ , Daryl had said once, when they’d done another run of Audrey Hepburn, and _My Fair Lady_ had come up. _World don’t work that way, though_.

Rick had stifled his own protest with a small handful of popcorn, before deciding humour was the best way to go on this. _We could try_ , he’d said, grinning. _You and me. We’ll talk like hoity toity, high-falutin’ sticks in the mud. See if they let us into a local debutante ball._

 _Nah_ , said Daryl. _No point. I ain’t never gonna be anyone’s lady fair_. He’d picked at the popcorn in his palm after that, sullen, and Rick had decided that switching the movie out for another one was the thing to do.

But not before thinking _You could be my hunter rough, and I’d like you just as much_. 

When they’ve got a patch of days or weekends off, Rick finds he’s heading outside more, farther and farther out into the woods and forests surrounding their little county, traipsing along mosquito-infested waters and dry woodland with Daryl. Learning how to fish and hunt, instead of just sitting at home, even if the hunting had taken longer to learn, and it’d taken them several botched hunts to decide Rick was better with Merle’s old Remington rifle than a bow.

It’s not until much later, though, that Rick feels comfortable mentioning the kinds of things that _had_ laid him low, made him spend evenings and weekends alone, with nothing more than lukewarm beer and maybe another sad set of TV dinners. And it’s only at Daryl’s gentle prodding, that Rick actually brings up the topic on his own.

The night it happens, they’re sitting out by a lake just after sunset, bellies full from the fish they’d caught and roasted during the day. Daryl’s on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, while Rick’s resting on his elbows, gazing up at the sky and watching the lazy drift of flame-red clouds as they fade into the deep indigos of the night, and they’re trading the kind of easy conversation that leads right up to it.

“I was never good at picking out the constellations in the sky,” Rick says. The stars all look the same to him, a billion tiny points of bright, twinkling light, and trillions of miles as far. “How about you?” He wonders if Daryl’s more well-versed in the stars than he lets on, having shown Rick how he’s hunted, tracked, and orientated himself by a few of them.

Daryl turns away from the low-hanging July moon, full and harvest gold against the backdrop of stars, as it shines through the treeline ahead. “Can pick out a few of ‘em,” he says with a thoughtful hum. “Spent a lotta time watchin’ ‘em when I was little. When my pa wasn’t…” His voice trails off, and it’s not wistful or angry in any way, just solemnly reflective. 

Too late, Rick remembers the scars he’d seen on Daryl’s back earlier, and his heart clenches at the thought.

They’d been mucking around the lake, boots off and jeans rolled to their knees, seeing who could keep their balance on the crumbling dirt edge of it the longest, before Daryl had toppled Rick in with a well-placed shoulder pat. And when he’d stood over Rick to gloat, Rick had reached out on a whim, curled a palm around Daryl’s wrist, and pulled Daryl in with a laugh, the two of them ending up dog-wet with hair in their eyes.

Daryl had been unusually irritated at being dragged into the lake, even if it was just a little harmless fun, and even more so at the prospect of changing out of his clothes, despite the fact that they’d shedded their outer layers before approaching the water. And it wasn’t until he’d shrugged out of his soaked shirt to drag his vest back on that Rick knew why.

Rick had been in the middle of a _You can’t sit in soaking clothes, you’ll catch a summer cold_ when he’d _seen_ , the story of old hurts and scars written into Daryl’s skin, no matter how he turned and tried to hide it from Rick. And Rick had let his hands fall uselessly to his side, had breathed _oh fuck_ and _I’m sorry_ , just wishing he could’ve known Daryl earlier, could’ve kept him from this pain. 

_Can’t change what’s in the past_ , Daryl had said, all the fight bled from his voice, when he’d looked into Rick’s eyes and seen all the _should have_ ’s and _could have_ ’s.

 _The one who did that to you_ , Rick had asked. _Where’s he now?_

_My pa?_ Daryl snorted. _Gone, fifteen years this March_.

 _Good_ , Rick had said, his answer more vicious than he intended. It’d surprised Daryl, even if he hadn’t commented on it. _Good_.

And maybe he’d seen something in the way Rick had balled his hands into fists, shaking, like there was still something he could do about it, because Daryl’s earlier irritation had given way to a grudging fondness, and twitching not-quite smiles, until they were at where they were now.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Daryl says now. He clears his throat to chase away the memory of old ghosts, and reaches out to tap Rick’s shoulder. “You’ll wanna come over here, where I am. Better view and all.”

Rick shifts a little closer, until they’re side by side. Flattens his elbows out against the grass, until his back’s against the ground, body tilted toward the sky at the same angle as Daryl’s. Their legs and shoulders brush together gently, and Rick takes a chance, nudging the toe of his boot into Daryl’s, fond. “Yeah?”

“Showed you where the North star was before, right?”

Rick hums in the affirmative, and points at one of the brighter stars in the sky, able to recognize the ladle-shaped constellation it leads to by now. The Little Dipper.

“That’s right.” Daryl reaches out to guide Rick’s pointer finger just a little lower. “Right below that’s the Big Dipper. Supposed to be named after some girl that got turned into a bear. Guy with a jealous wife did it or somethin’.”

“A guy?” Rick laughs. “You mean a _god_.” Maybe he doesn’t know his constellations, but he does know his mythology; at least, there were a few half-remembered tales he’d learned from his days in grade school. The gods were fond of turning themselves or other beings into animals for kicks, though every once in a while, a nymph would beat them at their own game and transform into a bird or stream of their _own_ accord.

Daryl snorts. “Whatever. Girl and her kid got turned into bears.” He guides Rick’s finger into tracing a shape that looks more like a swan preparing itself for a graceful, arced dive into water, than a bear. “There’s the big bear. The Big Dipper.”

Rick smiles, taking pleasure in the easy warmth of their hands joined together, just listening and nodding as Daryl points out the different constellations to him, along with his own version of the legends associated with them. Stories retold in a way that only Daryl could tell them. 

_You know that dumbass who tried to drive his pa’s sun wagon, except he couldn’t control the reins? Ended up scorchin’ the earth and got shot down? Well, that’s his brother up there. Spent forever collectin’ his bones from the earth. It made the gods cry, so they made him a swan in the sky._

_That swan’s your Northern Cross. Think it’s got some fancy shit name too. Cygnus, or somethin’._

Or, _That’s supposed to be Leo. Was supposed to be a lion that couldn’t be killed by any weapons._ Daryl loops a shape that, no matter how Rick squints or tilts his head, still looks like a clothes iron. But Rick supposes ‘iron’ and ‘lion’ rhyme, so it it’s close enough. _Some hero killed it with his bare hands. I wouldn’t have used my hands—damn thing like that could take off a finger or two. Guess you ain’t got much choice when you’re fightin’ for your life, though_. 

“And that one over there,” says Daryl. He catches Rick’s elbow, tugs just the slightest bit to get his attention, and Rick’s eyes snap open from where they’d been half-lidded, as he’d dozed lightly atop the grass, lulled into a gentle sleep by Daryl’s stories. “That’s Orion.” He traces out a shape in the sky with his finger that looks vaguely like a spaceship on two spindly legs, but Rick nods like he sees what Daryl’s seeing. 

“Orion’s supposed to be a hunter, right?” says Rick. “Is he the one you’re most like?”

“Nah,” says Daryl. “Jackass killed for the hell of it. Me, I kill what I need. Don’t need to make no sport of it, or brag about bein’ able to kill anythin’ that moves.” He shrugs from where he lies, bringing their shoulders together, the rustle of fabric between them loud in the quiet of the night. “Ain’t got nothin’ to prove.”

“Oh,” says Rick, quiet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Daryl shakes his head. “It’s all right,” he says. He reaches over to give Rick’s belly a little pat, and the tiny motion is immensely reassuring somehow. Like he’s been instantly forgiven. “You didn’t know.”

Rick’s wondering if it would be entirely inappropriate to nudge into the touch, like a dog having its belly rubbed, when Daryl speaks again.

“You see that?” Daryl says. He points at a star that looks like it’s set apart from any of the small, enclosed clusters in the sky. Pauses, reflecting in silence for a moment longer, before adding, “I’m more like that one.”

“What, like a rogue star?” says Rick, laughing.

Daryl snorts. “Rogue. Yeah. Don’t need nothin’, or no one.” He falls silent again, and this time, when he looks at Rick, there’s heat and meaning and something Rick can’t quite name in his gaze. “Well,” Daryl says eventually, spreading his palms. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Somethin’ like that,” Rick echoes softly, nodding. He watches the lone star, remembering how he’d read that all stars are considered part of a constellation, no matter where they’re situated in the sky. So the fact that Daryl thinks he’s all alone, a _rogue_ star, not tethered or bound to anyone, makes Rick inordinately sad. 

Rick lets himself think in the quiet that’s fallen between them, an ambling sort of peace that lets him gather his thoughts, like gathering wisps of cloud that have blown into the far corners of the earth. Wonders if it’s too much for him to ask if Daryl’s ever had anyone in his life. If he’s lost anyone. 

If it’s too much for Rick to reassure him with a _You’ve always got me_.

They could be a constellation all their own, Rick decides. A small one, that wouldn’t form grand shapes in the heavens, or be associated with legend, but had its own place in the world, because that was all they needed. 

“Ever had anyone in your life?” Daryl asks, breaking their amicable silence. His voice is oddly soft, like he’d meant for it to come out casually, but instead sounds much too invested in Rick’s answer.

Rick lets out a slow sigh. Talking about Shane and Lori to anyone hasn’t gotten that much easier even if it _has_ been more than half a year, but Daryl’s always so good at listening, just watching him with this sweet, doe-eyed look until Rick’s spoken his piece that Rick can’t leave him hanging. “There was a girl, once,” he admits. “Told her I loved her. But she was already someone else’s by then.” Some part of him warns him not to say too much, and Rick figures it should be safe to stop there.

Daryl nods, a silent motion of commiseration. If it wasn’t for the subject matter and the expanse of stars above, Rick would’ve thought they were kids on a camping trip, huddled in a blanket fort and sharing secrets in the dark.

“How about you?” Rick asks, turning to Daryl. Finds that he’s pitched his voice to the same volume as Daryl’s, meaning that maybe he’s just as afraid of Daryl’s answer as Daryl might have been of his.

Daryl sits up and shrugs. Scratches fingers into the soil for a loose pebble that he skips across the water, watching as each point of contact creates ripples upon ripples, scattering concentric circles along the surface, perfect. “Merle,” he says finally.

“Your _brother_?” Rick says, incredulous, like this wasn’t a fair exchange at all. “I thought you meant—”

“Never said it had to be someone _special_ ,” Daryl snaps, his next pebble sinking straight into the water with a miserable _thunk_. He grunts as Rick just gapes at him, as if to say the conversation’s closed, like he’s sorry for even asking, but Rick can see the faint blush of red on his cheeks, even in the wan glow of the night. 

It’s only later, when their conversation drifts onto other topics and they’ve lain back against the grass to watch the stars again, that Rick realizes their exchange _was_ fair. More than fair, with how much Daryl’s revealed by it. 

It makes Rick wonder if Daryl’s _ever_ had anyone like that in his life. Makes him wonder if maybe there hasn’t been anyone at all. 

And it makes Rick wonder, in the nights to come, when it’s just him and Daryl at the docks, or in the woods, sitting close enough to touch, if Daryl would let it be _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun: the Rickyl constellation, [here](http://s7.photobucket.com/user/slamduncan21/media/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/Rickyl%20Constellation.png.html?filters%5Buser%5D=5124443&filters%5Brecent%5D=1&sort=1&o=0).


	6. Realizations And A Sign

~

After that, it becomes only natural for Rick to seek out Daryl’s company more and more. Because it’s easy conversation and even easier silence, during which they can talk without speaking, a press of the shoulders or knees, a gesture of the hands, or a flick of the eyes all accomplishing more than words ever could.

And Rick _loves_ this, the way they can pick up on each other’s feelings, without even talking.

Daryl will notice the hunch of Rick’s shoulders, in the way that he doesn’t want to talk, and he’ll just wait until Rick _does_. And Rick can pick up on the various angles at which Daryl slouches, which range from _feelin’ lazy and relaxed_ to _shit day at the shop, don’t bother me if you don’t want your ass kicked_ , and can take the appropriate action. Like sprawling right out alongside him, or letting Daryl grunt out pieces of his shitty day, his shoulder pressed into Rick’s, or their hips gently aligned as they talk.

It’s not entirely one-sided either; for every trip Daryl takes him out on, Rick shows him things in town that he’s sure Daryl hasn’t had the pleasure to enjoy. Things like seeing the newest movies out. Inviting him over to catch the latest work of some old stars from the silver screen. 

And ever since the time Daryl had admitted that the smell of fresh baked bread reminded him of his ma, back when things hadn’t yet soured between her and his old man, Rick’s made the effort to take him out to different bakeries. To let him gaze upon the colors of freshly decorated cakes, breathe in the sweetness of caramelized sugar and revel in the gentle hum of bread dough formed in giant mixers, in wonder, before promptly buying them a loaf each of their feature flavours to share.

They’ve just left the Bake n’ Take with a full bag today, half for Rick and Daryl to enjoy, and half as a peace offering for Merle, so he’ll quit nagging about Daryl taking time off from the repair shop. Rick had only intended to buy their chive and garlic focaccia, and another savoury loaf, but they’d stumbled onto a deal for sweet rolls and pastries that was too good to pass up. Ended up buying far more than they needed.

Truth be told though, Rick can’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Not when he can see the smile flit across Daryl’s face now, small, nearly unnoticeable, but there all the same, that makes it all worth it. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t do it for that shy little smile, whenever Daryl made his way through a baked sweet, one of the fleeting moments where it felt like Rick could make Daryl _happy_.

They’ve settled on a bench just down the street from the Bake n’ Take, Daryl rifling through their bag, because neither of them can wait until they get to Rick’s to dig into the sweet rolls. And when Daryl finds what he’s looking for, making that sound halfway between a grunt and an excited little peep, Rick feels a grin spreading straight from his heart to his mouth, like he’s beaming from the inside out. A grin that’s wide and honest, and god-awful _soppy_ , but Rick can’t be bothered to hide.

_I want you_ , Rick finds himself thinking this time, when Daryl’s bitten into the apple custard bun Rick bought for him, and his smile at the warmth and buttery smell of it is the just the right amount of sweet. The thought’s immediately accompanied by a floating thought-cloud of words like _lovely_ and _adorable_ , before Rick’s paling and sweating from practically every pore in his body, thinking _shit_ and _no_ and _where the hell did that come from_. 

Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. 

He’s not supposed to fall harder for Daryl. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to fall for him at _all_. He’s not supposed to be thinking things like _I want you_ , not without knowing if Daryl even feels the same.

Maybe Rick hard started this thinking _hey, maybe we could_ be _something_ , but now that it’s really started _being_ something, especially on Rick’s part, he’s scared to death.

It doesn’t help matters that his heart’s made the long jump ahead of his brain, leaping across the barrier of _think I could like him_ and going straight into the deep end, drowning in the quicksand of adoration, attraction, and something that feels a lot like _lo_ —

But Daryl, _Daryl’s_ the big unknown in this equation, and it’s a fact Rick keeps coming back to. He hasn’t shown many heavy-handed hints that he’d be interested in Rick that way, beyond their occasional banter. And his frequent touches. And his habit of licking everything from his fingers, in a way that’s weirdly sensual, that Rick’s pretty sure is just a habit, instead of some sly way of flirting with him.

All right, Rick wasn’t _totally_ sure about that, but still, it was better to be safe, than sorry later. 

There was also the fact that Merle would probably murder Rick, if he made a pass at Daryl and it turned out that he’d read the situation dead wrong.

And there’s the question that’s plagued Rick since the start, the doubt that keeps him from making the next move. From taking that small step and closing the distance between him and Daryl. Because even if Daryl _does_ feel the same, what if Rick’s just displacing the feelings he’d had for Lori onto Daryl? 

That wouldn’t be fair to Daryl at all. 

“Rick,” Daryl’s saying. “ _Rick_.” Nudging the uneaten portion of his bun against Rick’s nose as if they’re smelling salts and have the power to revive Rick from whatever stupor he’s fallen into. And if that isn’t absolutely adorable, Rick doesn’t know what is.

“Hey,” Rick says, blinking. Chastises himself for worrying, instead of enjoying the time they’re spending together. 

“Whatever it is, you’re thinkin’ too hard,” says Daryl. He raises his eyebrows, giving Rick that _wanna talk about it?_ look, but Rick just shakes his head. 

“It’s just somethin’ at work,” he offers. “Some new traffic measures half the force doesn’t agree with.”

Daryl narrows his eyes, suspicious, like he doesn’t quite believe, though he leaves the conversation at that, and they move on to discussing the trip Daryl’s thinking of taking them on the next time Rick’s free. Spend the rest of the time just talking, Daryl picking off pieces of the bun to hand to Rick, and Rick taking them and eating without thinking, like Daryl’s a natural extension of himself, knowing just what Rick wants and needs.

But even if Rick’s dodged Daryl’s suspicions and his own temporary crisis this time, the ball’s already started rolling, and it’s all downhill from there. Because as much Rick doesn’t want to _feel_ , _I want you_ soon turns into other things. Softer things, like—

_I want to keep you_ , Rick thinks, whenever he watches the light catch Daryl’s tiny smiles just right. The way the sun strikes his hair in late afternoons, turning dark oak into summer gold. He thinks of broad shoulders and grime-brushed cheeks now, and the way Daryl moves through the woods, silent, stalking prey like a predator, body sleek and toned like a natural hunter of the forest. 

_I wish I could hold you_ , he decides, when Daryl’s fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie, from too-long hours at Merle’s shop. When he’s curled into Rick, away from the cold of their tent, on their weekend camping trips. He’d only have to reach out and put his arms around Daryl, sleeping bag and all, to change what’s there between them into more. 

And not the last of his thoughts, but perhaps the most damning: _I want forever with you_. To be by Daryl’s side. To wake up every morning with Daryl’s head pillowed against him, and watch him rub the sleep from his eyes, as Rick weaves fingers into his soft, sleep-rumpled hair.

_No, no, no._

_I’m not in love with him_ , Rick tries to repeat to himself, when those softer thoughts emerge, time and time again. _I’m in love with the idea of being in love. I’m looking for another Lori in him, that’s all._

_I’m not in love with_ Daryl. 

Except the more he tells himself he’s _not_ , the more Rick finds his mind wandering to Daryl, until Daryl’s pervaded every thought of his, every moment, every dream. 

Something’s got to give, Rick decides. Something’s got to happen, to tip the scales in either direction, because he can’t keep lying to himself this way. Maybe it’ll be in a flash of blinding light, or in some grand, sweeping gesture Daryl does that’ll propel Rick forward, but either way, he’ll suddenly know the truth of it all, see the way forward, and finally figure out which way to go on this, instead of being forever paralyzed by indecision. 

And on the third day of his indecision—or maybe it’s the hundredth, all Rick knows is that he hasn’t thought about anyone else, hasn’t had _time_ for anyone else—the sign he’s been hoping for finally appears.

~

As it happens, there’s no flash of blinding light, and Daryl doesn’t suddenly woo Rick with candlelight, wine, or secret paths lined with rose petals.

They’re just out at the local park, keeping to the marked paths to avoid stepping on dog droppings, because as nice as it is out, Daryl’s got to stay close to town in case Merle needs him at the shop. Merle had been out of town for the week, and was still laid up at home, recovering from a hell of a bender, stipulating that Daryl had to be on call, in case anyone wanted them to open up shop for the weekend.

And to be honest, Rick can’t complain, because it’s nice to stay in town for the weekend once in a while. To simply catch a movie and take an aimless stroll through the park like they’re doing today, shoulders bumping amicably every now and then, falling into the same stride as they walk together.

“Don’t know how long Merle’s gonna be outta commission,” Daryl says now, rolling his eyes, “so maybe not next weekend. But how about the one after that? Might need three days for the place I got in mind, though.”

“Think I could take a sick day,” Rick says slowly, contemplating how he’s going to make this work. He figures it shouldn’t be a problem, considering he hasn’t taken a sick day in _months_. 

The plans they’re making for the weekend after are for a stretch of woods that Daryl swears is famous for their white-tailed buck deer, and while it goes unspoken, they’ll probably spend the coming weekend staying in town and watching movies at Rick’s, especially if Merle hasn’t pulled himself together by then.

They pass the mini barbeque pits set up for families and a few hot dog stands scattered around the park, though Rick hopes they’ll be coming upon a drink stand soon, since he’s starting to get thirsty after the theatre popcorn and hadn’t actually thought to bring water. 

It’s only a few minutes later before he spots a lemonade stand in the distance. The only decision Rick’s caught between now is whether he can stand the time spent apart from Daryl in heading over to the stand, or whether he’d like to quench his thirst first.

Strangely enough, it’s Daryl who makes the decision for him. 

“Feelin’ kinda thirsty,” says Daryl, as they near the lemonade stand. “You want anythin’?”

“No, I’m—well, I could share,” Rick says. Since Daryl’s brought it up anyway, it’s not as if he has much of a choice anymore. Yes, he could definitely do with a cold glass of _something_.

Daryl nods. “Be back in minute,” he says, jogging over to the stand, while Rick finds them an unoccupied park bench to sit on. Daryl returns not with a simple glass of lemonade, but the kind that comes in a commemorative mason jar, ones that none but the most conscientious of collectors bother with.

“Don’t the ones in jars cost extra?” Rick asks, crinkling his brow. “Cup woulda been fine.” He blinks at the jar Daryl’s holding, with a cheap lithograph of the state of Georgia emblazoned across it that’ll wash off in a year. An overgrown, leafy peach stamped on top. In case anyone didn’t know theirs was the Peach State, somehow. 

_Georgia On My Mind_ , Rick reads along the bottom of the picture. As if quoting the title of the old Ray Charles song on a mason jar was enough do the classic piece justice. 

Daryl just shrugs and holds the jar out to him. “You want some or not?”

Rick nods as he takes the jar. “What’s in this, anyway?” The lemonade looks an unnatural shade of blue, the kind saved for hot-rods and neon signs, found only in a spark of lightning in a thunderstorm.

For that, Rick gets another shrug in response. “Lady called it ‘Electric Blue’,” says Daryl. “Saw it and thought of the color of your e—your truck.” He blinks a little too rapidly, and scowls, like that hadn’t been what he meant to say.

“I don’t have a truck,” says Rick.

“Well, _somebody’s_ damn truck,” Daryl says testily. “Look, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

And Rick remembers his mother always telling him _if you’ve got nothing nice to say to a gift, shut your mouth and just say thank you_ , so he does that here, before Daryl can get up in arms about whose truck the lemonade reminds him of. If it’s even a truck at all. Because it certainly isn’t Rick’s, since the Jeep his sister dumped on him is a lovely shade of what Daryl dubs _duckshit green_.

It seems to work, because Daryl relents, letting his legs sprawl out from the park bench, arms along the back of it, relaxed. Seeing as how the park bench isn’t that big to begin with, however, it leaves his hip and knee pressed lightly against Rick’s. He watches as Rick struggles with the lid of the jar, and snorts, when after three attempts at twisting it off, Rick makes no progress. 

“Give it here,” says Daryl, even as Rick holds on, careful not to drop the jar. Takes the rag from his back pocket and anchors it around the lid. Twists it off in one go, pressed up against Rick as he does so.

Rick holds the jar out to Daryl first, but Daryl just shakes his head. “You have what you want first,” he says. “I’ll take whatever’s left. Too sweet for me to finish on my own.”

“All right,” says Rick, taking the first small sip. It goes down smooth and cold and sweet, and the glass sweating in his hand is a welcome chill from the day’s heat.

Only, there’s something _else_ that sends a shiver down Rick’s spine, one of anticipation that isn’t from the cool sweetness of the lemonade, but from Daryl’s knee and hip pressed against his, warmth seeping through the lightest layer of Rick’s clothing into skin. 

Daryl just grins, small and knowing, when he sees the appreciative smile on Rick’s face. “There,” he says, nodding as Rick takes another small gulp. Lets it slide down easy, a swallow of liquid smoothness that cools Rick from within. “It’s nice, ain’t it?”

And Rick isn’t sure whether he’s talking about the lemonade, or the fact that Daryl’s pressed right up against him on the tiny park bench, but he nods. “Yeah,” Rick says, swallowing another sip of the lemonade, then another, as he holds Daryl’s gaze, Daryl’s eyes just a shade darker than the drink they’re sharing. “Real nice.”

Daryl’s the first to look away, and at that, something curls in the pit of Rick’s belly, like a lump of cooling coal.

_Shit_ , Rick thinks, hoping he can blame the warmth creeping into his cheeks on the summer heat. _He got the double meaning, all right_. 

Rick’s starting to wonder what he could possibly say to save this situation, like maybe _I meant the lemonade was real nice, and not your eyes or your touch or anything_ , realizing that’d just dig himself deeper, when Daryl takes the jar from him. Drains the rest of it, in long, slow swallows, his Adam’s apple moving in a hypnotic shift that draws Rick’s gaze. Huffs a short, satisfied breath when he’s finished.

“Here.” Daryl nudges the empty jar into Rick’s hands. “You’re always sayin’ your desk at work’s a mess. Maybe you can put your stuff in here. Your things,” he says, when Rick just blinks at him. 

“Right,” says Rick, staring at the peach printed atop the backdrop of Georgia. Finds it hard to swallow, to breathe, his chest filling with a sensation he can’t quite name.

_No_ , Rick decides, fighting against himself. _I’m not feeling what I think I am_. 

Daryl taps the jar in Rick’s hands and motions at the inside. “Maybe wash it out first, though,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Or you’ll get all kinds of weird shit growin’ in it.”

“Right,” Rick says again, before his brain reaches out, seizing the connection with his heart, and he realizes the flare of warmth blossoming in his chest _is_ affection, and gratitude, and something he won’t put a name to, all at once. He’s absolutely touched by this small gesture, because god, he _does_ have a lot of stuff and things, in paper clips, thumb tacks, and knickknacks, and they clutter up his workspace like nothing else on earth. “Thank you,” he remembers to say. “ _Thank you_.”

Daryl shrugs and gives him a shy smile, like he hasn’t ever been told he’s done a thing right, like Rick is the _first_ , and something flutters deep inside Rick’s chest, a little _oh_ of realization, that of _course_ it’s not just affection and gratitude he’s feeling. A flutter that turns into the fury of a windstorm, the feeling he won’t name fighting its way free, despite himself. 

_Oh_ , thinks Rick, his heart skipping a beat in his chest.

Because this is all the floodgates opening at once, and all the _I don’t love him_ ’s are washed away in the tidal wave of _Yes, you damn well do_. This is the overwhelming retribution for all the times he’s not let himself overthink their touches, not forgiven himself for enjoying their time together and thinking of it as more than friends.

This is the moment of stunning clarity, despite the lack of heralding trumpets and a large banner unfurling before his eyes, that _it’s Daryl. It’s Daryl. It’s never been anyone else._

Daryl looks beautiful before him, a faint dusting of pink about his cheeks, and Rick’s struck by the urge to kiss the two spots of color, to cup Daryl’s cheeks in his hands and see if his mouth tastes like the lemonade they’ve just shared. To see if it’s sweeter, if the taste of Daryl is something far _better_ than lemonade. It’s not as if he hasn’t noticed how striking Daryl was before, because Rick’s always been looking at Daryl, watching, noticing, but it feels like it’s the first time Rick’s really let himself _see_.

_This is it_ , Rick realizes. _This is the moment I’ve been waiting for_.

And of course it wasn’t in any grand, sweeping gesture, because Daryl doesn’t do things like that. In fact, it isn’t anything different from what Daryl _usually_ does; it’s just Daryl being Daryl, thoughtful and kind in a way all his own, and _that_ touches Rick’s heart the most.

It’s this tiny action that banishes the doubts that have been circling in Rick’s mind. Casts aside the fears that maybe he’s just been looking for another Lori all this time, or a shadow of her in everything Daryl does. Makes it clear as _crystal_ just who it is Rick wants. And maybe Rick doesn’t know if he’s wanted in return, but this epiphany’s enough to keep him going, pushing him in the direction he’s wanted to find for so long. 

“You all right?” Daryl asks, his brow furrowed, like he’s got some inkling of the way Rick’s world has just shifted on its axes. 

“Yeah,” says Rick, grinning from ear to ear. “Hell, I’m _more_ than all right.”

And while Daryl arches a brow and peers at the mason jar Rick’s holding, muttering about there being meth in the lemonade, because he can’t explain how Rick’s suddenly so _happy_ , Rick’s thinking back to when his sister had sat beside him, watching him film Shane and Lori’s wedding dance.

_Are you in love with him?_ Rachel had asked, as she caught Rick mooning after the couple on the dance floor. Sure, she’d been off the mark, thinking it was _Shane_ that Rick wanted then, but maybe—maybe she hadn’t been that far off the mark, after all. 

_Are you in love with him?_ she’d persisted, even though Rick had balked at the question. _Because it’s all right if you_ are.

_Yeah_ , Rick thinks now, with a new conviction, as he watches Daryl. His smile hardly dims as they rise from the bench and he falls into step beside Daryl, as naturally as he blinks or breathes. _I_ am _in love with him._

_And it’s all right that I am_. 

Now all Rick had to figure out was what to _do_ about it.


	7. Season's Change

~

Despite the fact that the sign Rick’s been waiting for had hit him full in the face, he’s still of the mind that he should take some time before jumping into things. Take stock of his feelings, about Daryl. To know what he really wants. Because he doesn’t want Daryl to be his rebound, to be the person waiting to catch Rick after his fall. Daryl doesn’t deserve any of that, because Daryl is the best man he knows.

Rick has to be absolutely _sure_. 

So it’s almost autumn, before he lets himself think they could really _be_ something, or that there’s a possibility to at least _start_ something between him and Daryl. 

Rick’s worked himself up to the point where he’s decided he’s in love with Daryl—yes, that was a moot point now, no matter how much he’d tried to keep himself from it—and all Rick had to do now was decide whether to tell him, or to take this secret to the grave.

Except at the thought of actually telling Daryl, even signalling his intentions somehow, Rick’s courage absolutely _quails_ , his stomach starts churning something awful, and he just starts backsliding, thinking that maybe he’s all right with Daryl not ever knowing. That maybe it’ll be a secret worth taking to the grave, if only he gets to keep Daryl forever. 

“Rick,” Daryl says, nudging his shoulder. 

Rick blinks, suddenly remembering where he is and what he’s doing. It’s hard when he’s decided on a course of action where he’ll never tell his now-best friend how he feels about him, and the secret is eating Rick up from the inside. It is, in all honesty, every kind of exhausting. 

He’s managed to last two of the three days of their outdoors weekend trip, though, and Rick gives himself a pat on the back for that. He’d rather bottle up the feeling than let it all out and be the fool who confessed to Daryl. He won’t be the one getting an odd look in return, or a _Sorry Rick, I just don’t feel the same_.

No, that won’t be Rick. 

“ _Rick_ ,” Daryl says again, louder this time. “The hell’s the matter with you?” He sounds utterly incredulous, as Rick’s line goes slack and the outline of a fish can be seen darting away. “That’s the third catch you’ve let get away today.”

And something about that hits too close to home, of Rick letting good catches go, and Rick’s brain-to-mouth filter suffers a grave malfunction, as he blurts out, “You ever thought of gettin’ married?”

Daryl stills for a moment, before asking very slowly, “To who?”

_To me_ , Rick knows the tiny voice in his heart is straining for him to say. He gestures uselessly in the air with his hand, instead. “You know. The right person, when you meet them. The one.” 

And maybe it’s the autumn cold, or the fact that he hasn’t gotten a bite yet and Rick’s gotten _three_ that’s got Daryl riled up, because he snaps, “Ain’t no _one_.” There must be something hurt in Rick’s expression, because Daryl’s voice gentles in the next instant. “There’s—there’s the person you _make_ your one, I guess.” He tugs a little too hard at his reel, eyes not meeting Rick’s. “Maybe I…if there was somethin’ there. A spark. Guess I could.”

Suddenly, the prospect that Daryl _wouldn’t_ be averse to the idea terrifies Rick. That if he found a spark with someone, he _would_ get married, and Rick, well—Rick would have to stand by, suffering in silence while pretending to be happy for someone he loved yet _again_.

It fuels his courage just a little more, and Rick decides that he’s just going to have to tell Daryl, somehow. Because he can’t bear a repeat of someone he loves becoming somebody else’s, and he doesn’t think his heart could survive losing _Daryl_.

Except he hasn’t the faintest clue if he’s got a chance with Daryl at all. Has no idea what Daryl’s preference in a partner is. If he likes his women tall, or short, blonde or brunette. 

If he likes women that way at _all_.

_I need more information_ , Rick decides. _I need to test the waters_.

The fact that they’re sitting in a small rowboat, fishing in the middle of a lake, isn’t lost on him, and that’s probably why everything’s turned into a fishing metaphor for Rick. But it’s true that he needs to test the waters. To make absolutely _sure_ that the innuendos and implications that Daryl tosses out from time to time mean something, and that they’re not just a little teasing between friends, to get a rise out of Rick.

Innuendos and easy banter were one thing—hell, Rick can’t stop thinking back to Daryl’s _maybe better_ when Rick had said he’d hoped he was as handsome as Clint Eastwood in his prime, with a sweeping head-to-toe glance that couldn’t be anything but appreciative—but acting on them was another.

“A spark, huh,” says Rick. He notices a faint tug on Daryl’s reel, but to his surprise, Daryl’s not doing anything to bring it in.

Daryl doesn’t bother to answer him this time, just focuses on the reel like he’s going to get a bite at any moment. There’s a faint red hue spreading across his cheeks, but Rick attributes it to the chill of the lake, or the subject matter they’re discussing.

“I…” Rick ventures slowly. Hoping for a subtle way to phrase this that won’t leave Daryl asking him awkward questions after. Maybe instead of suggesting that Daryl could have a spark with _him_ , he could put a different spin on it. He casts this line of reasoning, careful, in Daryl’s direction. “I have a sister—”

“I ain’t goin’ out with your _sister_ ,” Daryl says, a little too sharply, before he tugs his poncho tighter around his shoulders. Curls into himself, like an armadillo, armor-plated. Protected. Safe. Like Rick’s just prodded his soft underbelly with a stick and he needs to keep his secrets close again, afraid of revealing too much.

Rick’s quick to hide his pleased grin, in case Daryl thinks Rick’s making fun of him, but he hadn’t expected to get a bite on his line so quickly. His sister Rachel’s already married, of course, but the fact’s never really come up in conversation, so Daryl doesn’t know it yet. And just from this small exchange, Rick knows something else, too.

That maybe he’s got a tiny wisp of a hope, after all. 

_I could do it_ , Rick thinks. _I could say, ‘If not my sister…what about_ me _?_ ’

And if Daryl just stared at him like he’d grown a third eye, instead of simply setting forth the possibility of a _them_ , of a _more_ , then Rick could simply laugh it off, like it never was.

“Why’re we talkin’ about this, anyway?” Daryl says, derailing that train of thought, as he peers at Rick now, eyes narrowed into those suspicious slits again. 

“No reason,” Rick says, too quickly. He doesn’t have a poncho to pull tight around his shoulders, but he does pull his knees tighter to his core. Daryl’s not the only one who doesn’t want to expose his soft underbelly yet.

But Daryl’s never been one to let go of something so easily either. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me, Rick?” he says, voice pitched lower, quieter. It seems he’s finally noticed the bite on his line, and he’s keeping a careful tension on the line, keeping it taut, tugging on the rod where he needs to, just like he’s taught Rick.

Rick’s heart stutters in his chest, the hummingbird beat of wings suddenly halted, and his heart chants _now, now, now_ , while his mind advises, _no, no, no_. 

“Was just curious, is all,” says Rick, as he leans back against a solid support in their rowboat. It sounds silly even as he says it, because even the best of friends talk about cars and sports and what they do in their leisure time, but hardly anyone talks about _You thinkin’ of gettin’ married?_ and _What’ll you do when you meet the one?_

Except there’s really no better reply at this time, since Rick’s only just decided on his course of action, and it’s still early moments yet.

“Sure,” says Daryl, voice devoid of any real emotion. His line’s gone slack, which means there has to be a fish, but when he reels it in, there’s nothing at the end of it. “Curious. Makes sense.”

It must be his imagination, Rick tells himself, that even as Daryl nods, his shoulders slump the slightest bit. And _that_ , Rick decides, after all that’s been said between them today, is curious enough in itself.

~

Another two weeks slip by, after Rick’s decided he’ll go for it. That he’ll tell Daryl how he feels.

Two weeks of _agonizing_ over his game plan, and running through every possible combination of outcomes through his head. It had sounded so easy when he first thought of it: tell Daryl the truth, simple as that. And if Daryl didn’t feel the same, Rick would rebuild the casing of frost and ice around his heart that Daryl had somehow bullied his way through, to guard against future pain.

Then, of course, Rick’s mind had veered off the straight and narrow, and taken a turn into places unknown, worrying over how he could act after, if things didn’t go his way. If they could stay friends, at least, because he’d miss Daryl’s soft and easy laughter. The way he’d squeeze Rick’s elbow when he wanted Rick’s attention on a hunt, or the way he’d curl into Rick’s side on the tent floor while asleep, when they headed out into deer country for the weekend. 

There was also the possibility that Daryl would turn tail and run, something that’d worried Rick for countless nights.

_Christ_ , he was in deep. 

Rick’s almost tempted to call his sister for advice on the matter, but he could do without the Spanish Inquisition that’ll inevitably follow, so it’s pretty clear he’s on his own for this one.

_Just tell him already_ , Rick decides one morning, after the _n_ th night of tossing and turning through piss-poor sleep. He’s just about reached his breaking point. _Tell him the damn truth and be done with it_.

Except, as in all things, it’s easier said than done. 

They’re at the park again today, this time to catch the sight of leaves on the trees at the zenith of color, with their fading sunlit golds and flame oranges, their fallen number speckling the pavement until it looks like the paths are paved with tiny stars. Rick’s favourite area of the park is where a row of trees, bent with age and wind, have formed a gentle canopy with the trees on the other side, a lush hallway of reds and golds that, lit from above, makes the passage as bright and brilliant as the dawn. 

And while they’re here mainly because Merle had kicked them out of the house, saying ‘a man’s got needs, and they gotta be met’, Rick can’t help but be thankful that _this_ is what they’ve come out to: the air chilled but clean, sweet with the smell of fallen leaves, the wind rustling through the trees like the whispers of playful sprites, and the pond nearby, gleaming crystal-bright with the light of the sun and the wonder of the trees’ reflections.

Rick’s led them to his favourite place in the park, with the trees forming their natural arbour, and thankfully, it’s free of other people; most of the kids have decided to play near the half-heartedly raked leaf piles, and the few couples there have chosen to wander along other leaf-lined paths. So this is as quiet a place as any, and Rick needs quiet, especially for what he’s hoping to do. 

He’s not sure what he’s going to say, or even how to say it, but he’s just opened his mouth to speak when Daryl rubs his hands together, like he’s chafing a little warmth back into skin. “Season’s changin’,” he remarks casually, looking up at the sky. Watches the slow, graceful flutter of leaves that a light wind sends drifting to the ground.

“Yeah,” says Rick, swallowing back his words. The season _has_ been changing, among other things. 

Daryl’s gaze meets Rick’s, and he holds it for a moment, silent, thoughtful. Maybe he sees something in Rick’s eyes, because he nods, once, and twitches a little smile at him. “Oughta be other things changin’ too,” he says, a little less casually. Less _sure_ , somehow. 

Rick’s breath catches in his throat, because _yes_ , he’s been noticing a few things changing himself. Daryl’s hair is getting longer, for one; it isn’t that soft, baby-fine down he had before, just enough to cover his ears, but longer, darker. Enough volume and length for Rick to run his fingers through, if he wants to. 

And god, does he want to. 

He’s noticed the way Daryl’s half smiles twitch into fuller _actual_ smiles now, the expression brightening his face and softening the hard lines that have built up around his brow, his mouth, the kind that’s been bred from a lifetime of frowning and aching and _hurting_. 

And Rick would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the way Daryl—

Rick sucks in a hard breath, because he can’t keep going down that road. He’s got to know what _Daryl’s_ referring to, because surely he can’t mean…surely this isn’t what Rick’s hoping it is.

“You said there oughta be other things changin’,” Rick ventures, hoping the waver in his voice doesn’t give him away. “Like what?”

Daryl blinks at him for the briefest moment, surprised, like he doesn’t have an answer at the ready, or more likely, can’t say what he’d meant to. Ducks away to blow a warm breath into his hands. “More geese’ll be movin’ through here soon,” he says finally. “On their way south.”

Rick tries not to think of other things moving south too, as Daryl leans in just a little closer, like the bloodflow to his—

“ _Geese_ ,” says Rick, too emphatically by half. “Right.” He can’t help but wonder what Daryl had _meant_ to say, because they’ve been dancing around this all summer, and Rick remembers the way Daryl had handed him that electric-blue lemonade, and said, _The color reminded me of your_ —before covering it up with a quickly mumbled _truck_.

Rick knows what _he’s_ hiding, but he just can’t figure out what _Daryl_ is. 

If this moment was part of a fairy tale, or a scene in one of those Disney princess movies Rick’s niece loved, Daryl might’ve said, _Oughta be other things changin’ too—like your heart_. 

And Rick could’ve taken Daryl’s hands in his, like he was going to plight his troth by the moonlight and said, _It’s already changed. And it was_ your _touch that melted the fortress of ice I’d built around it_. 

But it’s not, and Rick stays silent on the matter, because Daryl doesn’t elaborate much further than his point of geese moving through. Doesn’t take Rick’s hands in his to tell him _You know that emotion you’re feelin’ right now? Well, I feel it too_.

Rick just watches Daryl rub his hands together again, and thinks, _I could do it. I could warm my own hands then take his hands in mine. See how he reacts_. He doesn’t think he’ll be plighting any troths anytime soon, but he does think _I could_ , as he watches Daryl’s hand sway next to his, easy, while they walk. _I should_.

He tries to sling an arm around Daryl’s shoulders, something non-committal and friendly-like, just to test the waters, but then Daryl turns to say something, and Rick’s hand shrinks back, until all he manages is a feeble back pat.

_Take that step forward_ , Rick wills himself, when Daryl turns away and they’ve fallen into step beside each other again. He eyes Daryl’s hand once more, ungloved, vulnerable, and probably cool from the chilly autumn air. _Let him know_.

But by the time they’ve reached the end of the column of trees, let leaves rustle and crunch beneath their feet, Daryl’s hands are plenty warm already, especially after he’s jammed them into his pockets, and Rick’s missed his chance. 

And maybe wilfully so, because he’d caught Daryl’s eyes as they spoke, blue of the ocean’s depths in winter. Watched him tilt his head back and revel in the sun overhead and the swirl of leaves around them. Memorized the lovely slant to his lips as he picked a leaf from Rick’s hair. 

Rick could only think of all he stood to lose if he breathed the words he needed, and took the leap. 

Because it suddenly hurt, the thought of not having Daryl by his side, a palpable _ache_ that settled deep in Rick’s chest. He had, of course, pondered the thought of it night after night, but it was _different_ , when he was looking Daryl in the eye. It was different when Rick could _see_ everything he would miss about Daryl once he was gone. 

_There’ll be more chances_ , Rick tells himself, as he jogs to catch up to Daryl in the cool, autumn air. Steels his resolve, willing away thoughts of consequences and absences, and instead conjuring up thoughts of _forever_ and _together_. 

_There’ll be more_. 

And if there aren’t, Rick will just have to _make_ his own chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this chapter was drawn from various photos of the autumn season, which can be found [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/autumn1.jpg~original%0A), [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/autumn2.jpg~original), and [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/autumn3.jpg~original).


	8. The Universe Giveth

~

As it turns out, the universe seems to be trying to give Rick a break for once. Because as worried as Rick is that he’s permanently run out of opportunities to make his feelings known, the chances just keep on coming.

Surprisingly, the first comes in the form of Merle, or rather the nuisance Merle makes of himself. 

“Need to find a new place to live,” Daryl says one evening, when they’re out at the supermarket a block down from Rick’s. They’re here to pick up a variety of snacks for their weekly movie nights, because after the first time Daryl had come over, Rick’s started taking steps to make sure he’s got more than just old beer and expired pound cake on hand. 

Rick pauses, his hand halfway to the cart, a bag of pre-popped kettle corn in it still, his gesture of _is this one okay?_ “Why’s that?”

Daryl takes the kettle corn from Rick’s hand and drops it into the cart, a silent affirmation of _yeah, that’ll do_. “I’m tired,” he says simply, before an arch of Rick’s eyebrow forces him to elaborate. “Merle ain’t had a woman in a while, and I’m tired of overhearin’ him jackin’ off to bad porn at night. Some mornings too.” He rolls his eyes. “Been tellin’ him to use headphones or somethin’. But that only takes care of the sound from the _television_.”

Rick shudders at the thought of having to listen to the racket of Merle doing such a thing, day in and day out, and he can see the reason for Daryl wanting to leave. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say, _You should move in with me. Hell, you’re probably at mine more than you’re at Merle’s these days, anyway_.

But he’s not sure how Daryl will take such an invitation. If it’ll seem like Rick’s coming on too strong. And truth be told, Rick isn’t completely sure he can bear having Daryl so close, living in the same house, in the next room, when he’s got all these unresolved _feelings_ kicking around. It would only take one night, of Rick losing all self-control, for him to wander into Daryl’s room and all but _throw_ himself at Daryl.

At the same time, Rick’s mind supplies helpfully, it _would_ mean Daryl being under the same roof. Being able to see him whenever they weren’t at work, instead of Daryl making the trek to Rick’s or the other way around. He’d be able to see Daryl in the mornings, soft and newly woken, and in the night before they’d go to bed—

Rick’s mouth goes dry at the last thought, and it’s only when Daryl prods him in the shoulder that he finds he’s been staring at the same tube of chips for the last minute. 

“Hey,” says Daryl. “I ain’t lookin’ to crash at yours or anythin’.” And even as Rick’s stomach sinks a little at that, he’s relieved in equal parts. “Found a couple places in the classifieds that look all right, though. You wanna come with me to take a look?”

Well, there was _that_ chance shot to hell. 

But of course it’s all right with Rick, to take a look at the places Daryl’s narrowed his choices down to, so they find a day that works for both of them and check out the three units.

The first one is a bachelor apartment ten minutes away from Merle’s bike shop, with lovely wooden flooring, shiplap panelling, and a classic kitchen setup with bright overhead lighting.

“It’s nice,” Rick offers, even if he thinks it’s a little far from his own place. He tells himself that what matters is _Daryl’s_ convenience, not his.

Daryl shrugs. “I guess. It’s a little outta my price range though,” he admits. “Not sure I need all this fancy stuff.” He points to the floor-to-ceiling lamps and the bay window that overlooks the streets below. The view’s admittedly gorgeous, and Rick thinks it’ll be even more so at night, but it doesn’t feel like a _Daryl_ kind of place.

“Maybe we should look at the next place,” Rick says, relieved that he’s got a reason aside from _it’s too far from me_ to disapprove of the place.

The second unit is a basement suite in one of the newer neighbourhoods that’s definitely closer to Rick’s, even if it’s farther from the bike shop, but Rick’s first impression of the place as he steps in, is that it’s cold as _hell_.

There isn’t much in the way of furnishings either, just an empty wooden shelf, a few dusty implements for cooking, and a dingy bulb that gives off light the color of old, yellowed photographs. Rick wonders if the upstairs owners had poured everything they had into the upkeep of the exterior and the upper levels of the house, because it’s as if they’ve spared every expense down here. Even the flooring’s the original concrete, with fissures along the corners, and the only effort made is a threadbare rug thrown over the entranceway, like a pitiful welcome mat. 

“ _No_ ,” says Rick, before Daryl can even open his mouth to ask his opinion. “Just, no.”

Daryl rubs the back of his neck, and sighs. “The rent’s cheap,” he says. “That’s what it’s got goin’ for it. And their last tenant moved out after the mouse problem, so—”

“Is there even heating?” Rick demands. “Or do they expect you to be wearin’ a winter jacket in here all the time?”

“Uh,” Daryl starts, before Rick makes a motion to follow him back out to the car, and all but _pulls_ Daryl out of there. Never mind the lack of furnishings and the cracked flooring, Daryl would probably freeze to death before even moving all his things in. And if something were to happen, Daryl probably couldn’t even escape from the tiny corner window of the basement. 

No, Rick wouldn’t want _anyone_ to live there, much less Daryl. 

Rick’s of a mind to flat out suggest that Daryl should come live with him, his own personal issues be damned, especially if the last place doesn’t work out. But when they pull up to the third place, there’s a small, secret smile tugging at Daryl’s mouth. One that makes Rick think something’s up.

“It’s a little far from the bike shop,” Rick says finally, when he can’t stand Daryl’s oddly secretive silence. In fact, it’s a good twenty minutes out from the shop. 

“I know,” says Daryl. He offers Rick a twitch of a smile before adding, “C’mon, let’s take a look.”

It’s starting to strike Rick that this is feeling more and more like they’re shopping for a place together, for the _two_ of them instead of just Daryl, but he figures Daryl’s just asking for his opinion since Rick’s over at his half the time anyway. So he takes a breath and steels himself for the worst, before following Daryl up the stairs. 

Daryl spends a moment fumbling around in the mailbox for a set of keys. “Basement’s already rented out,” he explains. “The owners, though—that’s who usually lives up here—they’re movin’ out to Arizona to retire. Wanna keep the place for when their kids get a little older, but that won’t be for a few years yet.”

The house is located in one of the older neighbourhoods, and the age of it shows, especially when Daryl creaks the door open. But when they walk in, it occurs to Rick that the place is oddly _homey_ , like it’s a place people could live in. There aren’t fancy floor-to-ceiling lamps like the first place, but the lights Daryl turns on give the living room a soft, warm glow, illuminating the hall that leads to the kitchen. And there’s a small fireplace with a sufficient supply of firewood at the side, that Rick imagines could have a cozy fire.

A plasma television’s been mounted on the wall above the fireplace, and across from that is a plush leather couch, signs of wear starting to show in the sag of the seat cushions, but still managing to look invitingly comfortable. 

“I can’t imagine how much rentin’ a place like this costs,” Rick admits. If Daryl was going to have trouble with the first place, this one couldn’t be far behind in terms of the rent. 

“Actually,” says Daryl, “when I talked to ‘em, they said it was pretty much like I was just lookin’ after their house anyway, so they’re willin’ to cut me a deal on the rent.” He gestures to the empty shelving and cabinets. “They’ve moved most of the stuff they’ve needed out anyway, but they’re leavin’ things like kitchenware and some of the furniture. So there’s room for my things too.”

_More than enough room_ , Rick figures. _Almost enough for…_

Daryl takes in Rick’s open-mouthed expression and laughs. “Yeah, I know. More space than I need, but at least it ain’t a cramped bachelor pad. Or a cold ass basement.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, looking around. It feels like a place he wouldn’t mind coming to, to spend some quiet evenings with Daryl. It feels like a _home_ certainly, even a little like Rick’s home, and he’s pretty sure that even if it’s more space than Daryl needs, it’s just the right amount for the two of them. Except there’s still one thing that’s been bothering him all this time. “Daryl,” Rick starts. “I know you wanna get away from Merle for a bit, but it’s twenty minutes out from the shop. Factor in traffic, and you’ve got at least half an hour to go each way.”

Daryl’s shoulders slump just a little, before he’s standing ramrod straight again. “I thought about that, yeah,” he says.

“And you still—”

“Just thought I’d, you know.” Daryl shrugs, but there aren’t any other words forthcoming, and Rick has to nudge his elbow to get an explanation out of him. “It’s five minutes out from the police station,” Daryl says finally, all in one breath. 

Rick can only blink at him. “Daryl, you’re not choosin’ this place just because of _that_.” It’s true that it’s only five minutes from the station Rick works at, and only fifteen from Rick’s, but Daryl couldn’t possibly have chosen this house for that sole reason.

“’Course not,” snaps Daryl, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I like the place. And I’d be gettin’ a deal on the rent, too. Just…” He sucks in a breath and casts his eyes toward the ceiling. “Just thought if you came over for a movie, maybe you wouldn’t have to go home. You could just stay over if the movie’s a long one, or if it runs late. And head to work from here in the morning.”

Rick notices Daryl doesn’t mention _stay on the couch_ when he says ‘stay over’, and it takes him a few seconds to remember that Daryl’s still waiting for an answer. “I’d like that,” Rick says finally. “But only if it isn’t gonna be extra trouble for you.”

“No trouble at all,” says Daryl, beaming brighter than the sun, a rare but lovely treat that Rick takes a minute to memorize.

There’s no question about which place Daryl will choose in the end—though funnily enough, it’s his new place that presents the situation for Rick’s next opportunity to confess.

~

It’s doesn’t take long before they’ve moved Daryl’s humble collection of old movies, clothes and other effects to his new place, but they’ve just finished buying some hardware to help fix up the place, when it happens.

The store’s just closed for the evening, and they’re out in the parking lot, making their way to the car, shopping bags in tow full of nails and screws, and a set of doorknobs to fix the doors leading to the kitchen and master bedroom. One moment, Daryl’s squinting up at the sky, eyes shielded against what little sunlight isn’t obscured by the clouds, saying, _Think that looks like rain_ , and the next, they’re caught out in the open in what must be the downpour of the century.

“Hope this doesn’t turn into hail!” Rick calls over the sound of raindrops striking the asphalt of the parking lot, like a giant sack of ice pellets upended over a granite countertop.

Daryl shakes his head. “It won’t.” He points across the parking lot at the bigger problem they have at hand. “Worry ‘bout _that_ instead.”

It was Daryl’s idea to walk over from where they’d parked by the theatre, and they’ve got a hell of a walk back, with two giant parking lots’ worth. The hardware store has only the barest inch of overhang, and it’ll be impossible to wait out the rain there.

Rick sucks in a quick breath, and shrugs out of his jacket. “Come on,” he says, hefting it over both their heads. It’s just enough to cover their heads and shoulders, which is a stroke of luck, since they don’t have the mercy of newspapers or other magazines to use instead. “We’ll use this as cover to make it back to the car.”

Daryl looks like he’s caught between and a snort and a smirk, and his next words are just the right amount of flippant to make Rick laugh in his stead. “This like in the movies, when them couples share an umbrella?”

And Rick wants to say, _It’s exactly like that_ , but then Daryl’s looping the bag he’s holding in the crook of his arm, and huffing _All right, we’ll do it your way_ , like Rick won’t find any argument here. Supports Rick’s jacket on the far side with one hand, and wraps his other arm around Rick’s waist, tethering them together like they’re one giant, multi-limbed being. Tugging him out and away from the pitiful protection the hardware store offers. Then they’re _off_ , running through the stinging cold rain like they’re racing in a three-legged relay, completely in sync and never a step off-beat from each other.

Before Rick knows it, they’ve reached the car, and Daryl’s slammed the passenger’s side door shut with a long rush of breath, somewhere between a laugh of exhilaration and annoyance at having gotten soaked despite their cover.

“That ain’t happened in a long time,” Daryl says. “Bein’ caught in the rain like that.” He shakes the droplets that’d gotten through Rick’s jacket from his hair, his grin too wide and his cheeks flushed red from the cold of the downpour. 

Rick’s breath catches in his throat at the sight, because Daryl looks _beautiful_ like this, hair raked back from his brow, the pale evening light throwing the smoky blues of his eyes into sharp relief, casting just enough shadow to highlight the fullness of his mouth.

He wants to reach out, to cup the back of Daryl’s neck and kiss him so badly it _hurts_. To say _I want you_ and _I need you_ and all the things he’s been holding back for so long, because this proves more than anything, how different Daryl is from other people, how unique he is—other people take pleasure from a new shirt, or truck, or television show, but Daryl—Daryl finds his from being caught in a thunderstorm, like it’s the only thing that makes him truly feel alive.

And Rick wants all of him, all his differences, his imperfections, all the things that make him _Daryl_ , and he wants it all forever. 

Rick gets as far as _I_ , before the other words die in his throat, because Daryl leans in, nodding at Rick’s jacket between them, his fingers brushing a quick _thank you_ against Rick’s on the stick shift. 

At that, Rick’s brain short circuits momentarily, because he can only imagine the same whisper-soft touch of _lips_ against his, and all he manages in response is a breathless, dazed, “Yeah.” 

_I—yeah_. 

It’s not high on Rick’s list of proud moments.

It’s also the second chance shot to hell, because afterwards, Daryl turns away, listing off a few other things they need to get to make the place habitable, and the moment’s _gone_ , just like that.

Rick swallows down his disappointment, because what’s one more bitter pill to swallow after all the opportunities he’s missed already? He can’t help but notice the rivulet of rainwater that marks a path down the column of Daryl’s throat, into the open collar of his shirt, but it’s already too late. Rick can’t just stop the car now and crush his mouth to Daryl’s without any preamble at all, so they drive on to the next place, fogging up the windows of Rick’s old Jeep, but not in the way he’d like.

_There’ll be more chances_ , Rick assures himself. _There will_.

Except then the month’s almost through, and Rick realizes that he’s dug himself into a hole. That the time they’ve spent together is a double-edged sword and the longer he waits, the more it’s going to hurt if Daryl’s answer is _no_.

He’s got to do something, and soon; Rick can’t just keep waiting for the next opportunity to fall into his lap, because at some point the universe is just going to shudder a sigh and say _time to pull your own damn weight¬_. 

In the end, though, it throws him a bone in the form of one final, obvious opportunity.

~

By now, they’ve finished moving all of Daryl’s things into his new place, managed to fix the leaky faucet and broken doorknobs—it was Daryl who’d fixed most of it, Rick just stood there and handed him the tools he needed—and built up Daryl’s humble collection of old movies on the mantle above the fireplace. So Rick decides they’re well justified in celebrating with treats from the bakery a block down from the station, one they haven’t sampled from often.

Rick grimaces at the taste of the cookie in his hand, one of _Greener Pastures’_ specialty spiced varieties. The Greene sisters make the softest, plumpest cheesebuns and cinnamon rolls this side of town, but their talent simply doesn’t translate to their cookies. Which is a shame, with how often Rick and Daryl plan to stop by, since their ingredients are certified ‘100% fresh’ from their parents’ farm.

“Somethin’ wrong with the cookies?” Daryl asks. He eyes his own, suspicious, like maybe there’s a dose of rat poison in there, before looking up at Rick, ready to spring into action and make him cough it back up if need be.

“Just a little too heavy on the nutmeg,” Rick sighs. He sets it down regretfully. It’s a shame, because the last two places they’d tried, _Bunanza_ and _Pie In the Sky_ , hadn’t gotten the taste right either. _Bunanza_ had gone so lightly on the spices that the cookies might as well have been sugar cookies or shortbread, while _Pie In the Sky_ must have dropped their entire cinnamon shaker into the batter.

Daryl hums thoughtfully, even as he continues to scarf down his own cookie, since his motto is _paid good money for it, might as well eat it_. “Maybe,” Daryl suggests, mouth half-full, as he wicks crumbs from the corner of his mouth with a thumb and sucks those down too, “we oughta try makin’ our own.”

“You know how to bake?” Rick asks, all but gawking. Is there anything Daryl _can’t_ do?

“Hell _no_ ,” says Daryl, dispelling the idea of it instantly. “But I figure if we got us a recipe, we’ll be all right.”

They spend the next minute bickering about whether they should make them from scratch—Daryl’s idea—or cheating and buying premade mix from the supermarket—Rick’s suggestion—before deciding that the only things they’ll be cheating in the process are themselves and their mouths, so Daryl’s idea wins out in the end. 

The rest of the afternoon’s spent wandering the baking aisle of Dell’s Grocery, picking up ingredients they’ll need, like brown sugar, vanilla, a carton of molasses, and spices like ground ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. Daryl catches Rick sliding a pre-mixed bag of chocolate chip cookie mix into their cart, and yanks it back out, shooting a _what the hell is this?_ in Rick’s direction, before tossing a sack of flour in, instead.

They have to circle back to the refrigerators, of course, to find butter and eggs, and as they pass the pharmacy, the pharmacist gives them an understanding look, like he’s fine with ringing up their purchase at the counter, if they’ve got items they want to be discreet about. Blinks, confused, when they pass the section for condoms and lube and don’t stop to pick any up. 

Rick has to duck behind Daryl, his cheeks warm, because god, it’s like Rick’s feelings are transparent and everyone _knows_ , except the one he’s trying to tell. 

That instance aside, it’s all comfortably domestic, no different from when they shop for food or snacks together, and Rick’s struck by the sense that he’d like for them to do this together, for the rest of their lives. Wonders if it’s just oddly sentimental of him that he loves quiet moments like these, in between the things that make his heart race and crank his adrenaline to high, like fishing, or hunting, or the latest action flick at the theatre.

“Think we’ve got most of what we need,” Daryl says, after they’ve paid and loaded their groceries into the back of Rick’s car. He nods after consulting the printout of the recipe they found online, for molasses spiced cookies. “They left pans and sheets in the oven, so we’re good.”

And if Rick thought simply shopping for the baking supplies together was surprisingly comfortable and domestic, it’s nothing compared to when they return to Daryl’s and actually get down to the nitty gritty of the baking. Of measuring out ingredients, and making sure things are mixed together in the right order. They split the tasks, working around each other in the little kitchen; Rick mixes and beats the butter, while Daryl readies the dry ingredients on the side, before they switch and Daryl continues to mix the butter, while Rick adds in vanilla extract, egg, and molasses, careful. 

If Rick thinks Daryl looks utterly adorable with flour powdering his nose and cheeks and the tips of his hair, he keeps it to himself. 

It’s really starting to come together, and the kitchen’s filled with warm sweetness, the aroma of butter and vanilla and sugar combined. Finally, it’s time to add the dry ingredients, and as Daryl passes over the bowl where flour, baking soda and all their spices are mixed in, Rick furrows his brow, just the smallest bit, after a quick sniff of the batter.

“What’s the matter with it?” asks Daryl. 

Rick hums to consider his answer, before saying, “Think it needs more cinnamon.”

“I just threw in a teaspoon,” says Daryl. “Since you said one of the last places used too much.”

“Yeah, but the recipe says one and a _half_ ,” Rick replies. He points at the water-stained sheet they’ve perched on top of the kitchen faucet. They’re too early into this ‘baking’ thing to start experimenting, and Rick only remembers too well his sister’s attempt at cutting sugar here, adding cocoa powder there, and ending up with gnarly charcoal lumps that should’ve been brownies.

Daryl snorts and rolls his eyes, rummaging through the cupboard to find the cinnamon again, but when he goes to press it into Rick’s hand, Rick’s too busy trying to reach for the recipe from where it’s fluttered behind the faucet. Ends up blindly grasping Daryl’s hand instead. 

While Daryl simply blinks at the contact, not saying anything one way or another, Rick’s mind goes through the three-alarm system of _oh my god, it’s happening_ , and _I’m not ready_ , and instead of holding _on_ like he’d told himself to if ever such an opportunity presented itself, Rick leaps away like he’s been burned, before mentally kicking himself with a _damn it, damn it, damn it_.

“I, uh,” Rick tries with a weak laugh. “Didn’t see what you had in your hand there.”

Daryl, for his part, sighs, and empties out enough from the cinnamon shaker for half a teaspoon, and tosses that into the bowl Rick’s holding, one Rick’s glad he didn’t upend when he’d jumped away in a panic. Then he slinks away, seemingly hurt, his shoulders drawn in, head tucked closer to his neck. Like Rick’s rejection of his touch was a rejection of _him_ somehow. 

Despite that mishap, their efforts at following the recipe pay off, because it all comes together to create a sweetly supple dough, that they roll into balls and sprinkle with sugar, before pressing them into the ungreased cookie sheets. 

Except _that_ , they do in awkward silence, with an _I guess neither one of us is going to talk first_ kind of tension.

Rick knows it’s up to him to speak first, but he can’t find the words, and he’s not exactly sure what he’d be apologizing for, anyway. So he just rolls more dough, tosses a pinch of sugar onto each ball, and smacks it down into the sheet, flicking a glance up at Daryl here and there, waiting to see if Daryl will speak first. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, Daryl just pushes the baking pans into the oven when they’re done with the dough and announces that he’s got some messages to check, but he’ll be back, so _watch those cookies_.

Rick decides not to mention that any messages Daryl might have could only be from Merle, and he’d probably phone them on the land line, but he doesn’t call Daryl out on his excuse. Chooses instead to keep an eye on the cookies from the living room, because he can see the oven well enough from there, so when Daryl disappears into a room to do whatever it is he’s escaped to do, Rick sits on the couch and runs the scenario that’d happened earlier through his mind. 

Yes, he could’ve simply held on to Daryl’s hand and gauged his reaction. To see if Daryl would fling off Rick’s fingers in disgust, a _what the hell are you doin’_ and keep a healthy distance from him the rest of the time, though from the looks of things, Daryl’s managing the last item well enough already. Alternatively, Rick could’ve apologized, and made up some excuse, a simple _I was just surprised, sorry_. That might’ve gone a long way toward patching up the rift that’s opened up between them just now; certainly farther than the clumsy silence Rick had met him with instead.

Rick must be pondering the situation for longer than he thinks, because all of a sudden, Daryl’s running out of his room, phone in hand, and snapping some mixture of _I told you to watch ‘em_ and _Don’t you know molasses burns real easy?_ So when Rick remembers to rush to the kitchen after him, he’s just in time to see Daryl yanking the oven door open in a hurry, and foolishly reaching for the baking pan without _gloves_.

“Daryl, _wait_ —” Rick calls, but he’s too late, because Daryl’s yelped _motherfuck_ and sucked his fingers into his mouth, his fingers burnt from the heat of the pan.

Rick snaps the oven door shut immediately and herds Daryl to the bedroom, after asking _where’s the first aid kit_ and _are you okay_. Cranks the bathroom faucet to its coldest, highest setting and forces Daryl’s hands to cool under the jet of water. It’s only when he sees Daryl starting to shiver from the frigid water that Rick shuts off the tap and pats Daryl’s hands dry with a soft towel, and leads him to the bed, making Daryl sit while he hunts for the first aid kit hidden somewhere in the room.

Once he finds it, Rick yanks it from the drawer it’s hiding in and spreads the needed contents out on the bed, including a roll of bandage, adhesive tape, blunt-end scissors, and a tube of ointment he found while rooting through the kit’s side pockets. The ointment claims to be good for cuts and burns and blisters, and—god, he’s just realized Daryl’s fingers are going to blister from this, as he stares at the reddened tips. 

“I’m sorry,” Rick says, all in one breath, “I’m sorry, I shoulda been watchin’, and I know you said to, but I was…” It’s a torrent of words he can’t hold back, and he just manages to stop himself short of _I was just thinking about you, how to make things up to you, how to make them_ right. Rick takes a deep breath, to collect his thoughts, and continues to wind bandages around each of Daryl’s burned fingers. “Anyway, I…I’m so _sorry_ , Daryl.”

He doubts he’s even come remotely close to saving the situation from earlier with this apology, but it’s something he has to say, because Daryl’s right; Rick _should’ve_ been watching the cookies, instead of spacing out on the couch, reflecting on how he’d made a mess of things. Because this—this is an even bigger mess than Rick’s anticipated, since Daryl’s hurt, and Rick’s fairly sure it’s his fault. 

But maybe all isn’t lost, because in the middle of what must be Rick’s fifth apology, Daryl finally grunts and says, “You’re takin’ awful long to do up a few bandages.” Rick glances up at Daryl’s face, where there’s a teasing half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Gonna kiss my fingers better, or what?”

And that’s when Rick looks down, only realizing now he’s been finished with bandaging Daryl’s fingers for a while now. That he’s been holding onto Daryl’s hands all this time. 

“Oh,” Rick blinks. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask _Is that what you want me to do?_ but he’s pretty sure all Daryl will do is snort and give him the same kind of evasive non-answer that he does when isn’t sure what to say either. Like _it ain’t about what I want_ or _it’s your call_. So Rick just grins and says, “Think I will. If you think it’ll help you heal faster.” Just touches his lips to Daryl’s bandaged fingers, a gentle, feather-light kiss that doesn’t have to mean anything if Daryl doesn’t want it to. 

When Rick looks up again, he finds Daryl studying him for a good long moment, before the faintest of roses bloom into his cheeks and he clears his throat. ‘Yeah,” says Daryl. “Think it will.”

They stay like that for a moment longer, and Rick thinks, _This is it, this quiet. There’s no one else around. It’s just you and Daryl._

_If there was ever a moment to do what you needed to, this is it._

The universe was being kind to Rick today, giving him not one chance, but _two_ , all within the same day. 

But just as Rick’s opening his mouth, to venture a _Daryl, if I were to tell you that I—_ Daryl sniffs the air, wrinkling his nose as he says, “You smell somethin’ burnin’?”

Rick pinches the bridge of his nose, and shuts his eyes for a moment. 

The universe giveth, and the universe taketh away.

It doesn’t take them long to find the source of the problem, because when they’ve rushed back out to the kitchen, there’s smoke billowing out from the oven, silver streams of it thick with the sick-sweet smell of burnt cookies. Cookies they’d forgotten all about and left burning up inside the oven, because the moment Daryl had hurt himself, Rick had whisked him away for treatment, like nothing else mattered—and truly, nothing had. 

Rick yanks the tray out of the oven with the frayed oven mitts hanging from the cabinet over the sink, and gets started on scraping the harshly browned discs from the pan, their edges burnt like they’ve suffered a bad tan. He’s only thankful they hadn’t set off the smoke detector, because they’d have a lot of explaining to do for _that_. The rest of the time he spends cleaning up the mess of spatulas, measuring cups and mixing bowls, making sure Daryl stays out of the kitchen, because he doesn’t want Daryl pulling any heavy duty while he’s hurt.

“You all right in there?” Daryl calls anyway, peering into the kitchen from the living room couch.

“I’m fine,” Rick answers over his shoulder, as he scrubs down the scorched baking pan. They’ll probably have to buy a new one to replace it, since it looks beyond saving, but he can’t find it in himself to mind—he’d rather have the pan be the casualty, in the face-off against Daryl. “Just relax in there,” he adds, more than a little sternly, when Daryl makes to creep into the kitchen again. “I’ll be right out.”

In the end, Rick manages to save some of the cookies he’s scraped from the pan, leaving them to cool on a rack before snapping off the burnt edges and crumbling the edible bits up like granola mix. They have enough ingredients to try again another time, but for now, Daryl breaks open a bag of ready-made popcorn after they’ve shared a look that says _no more of this baking nonsense tonight, let’s just do a movie_. Mixes the popcorn and over-crisp spiced cookie bits together, for a savoury-sweet combo Rick’s actually pretty enthused about trying. 

“This don’t taste half bad,” Daryl says, chewing on the handful of the combo Rick lifts to Daryl’s mouth, his own injured hand resting gentle along Rick’s knee. They sit through the opening credits of _Pulp Fiction_ , the two of them slumped together on the couch, exhausted. 

“Not bad at all,” Rick agrees, crunching through his own handful of the mixture. There’s just enough sweetness and bitter to the cookie pieces to complement the salt of the popcorn, and all in all, he’s happy that they’ve made the most of a bad situation, even if that’s his third—third and half, maybe, considering he’d had a chance to redeem himself and blown that too—chance shot to hell. Again. 

If this could be compared to a game of baseball, Rick would’ve been lobbed several curveballs, and he would have struck out on all of them, leaving him with a batting average of _zero_.

At this point, Rick’s pretty much given up on the idea that anything will happen _tonight_ , setting aside that foreboding sense of destiny for another time. Decides he’ll do better by just enjoying himself and Daryl’s company instead.

Of course, that only makes it worse for what comes next. Because by the time the movie’s over, it’s past midnight, and they both know Rick’s got to be up at the ass crack of dawn to get his paperwork in for the month-end at the station tomorrow. God knows what’ll happen if he’s even a _minute_ late handing his files in to the secretaries.

“Well?” Daryl says, looking over at Rick with the sleepy-soft smile Rick knows he can’t say no to. “You can, if you wanna.” He yawns, blinking slowly. “Stay over, I mean. You can even take the bed, if you want.”

Rick knows from experience that the couch isn’t exactly the best of places to sleep. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed,” says Rick, incredulous. “I oughta get goin’ as soon as we clean up here.” He’s starting to stand up, clearing away some of their snack bowls, when Daryl speaks again.

“Maybe we can share,” Daryl says. He fiddles with the remote, his gaze fixed firmly on the television. “It’s big enough for two.” He looks up at the clock, before finally, _finally_ meeting Rick’s eyes. “I know you got a ways to go, and you’ll need your sleep if you gotta deal with them harpies down at the station tomorrow.”

Rick laughs at Daryl’s description of the receptionists at the station, since he’s encountered them more than a few times while waiting for Rick to get off work. “Guess you got a point there,” he says, giving in.

He’ll have to steel himself against temptation, sharing a bed with Daryl, but Rick’s sure he can manage that. Somehow.

He’s surprised to find that Daryl’s already set aside a new toothbrush for him in the bathroom—even if Daryl simply snorts and says, “ _Told_ you you’d probably end up stayin’ over now and then”—and a soft, worn T-shirt that smells like Daryl to use as a pajama top, if Rick wants. 

They ready themselves for bed, brushing their teeth together in front of the mirror, and Rick changes into Daryl’s T-shirt so he doesn’t roll into work with a sad mess of wrinkles where his shirt used to be. Takes a moment to consider how thoughtful Daryl’s being, having all these things ready for him, and secretly revelling in the smell of the shirt, the soft warmth of it enveloping him, like it’s Daryl’s arms around him again, wound gentle around his chest, his waist. 

All of Daryl’s small gestures of kindness make Rick’s heart hurt, because this easy _togetherness_ is everything Rick wants, but isn’t _quite_ , and it’s killing him inside.

It’s just about time for them to turn in for the night, and Rick gets into the bed gingerly, careful to keep close to the edge—he’s got to maintain his sense of propriety, after all—before Daryl gives him a look that’s all kinds of unimpressed.

“You plannin’ on sleepin’ in the bed, or on the floor?” Daryl asks. “Don’t matter to me if you fall out during the night.” He shrugs, and with a cheeky half-grin, adds, “More space for _me_.”

Rick shuffles a little closer to the center of the bed. So much for propriety. “The bed,” he says decisively. “And the only way you’re gonna get more space is if you _push_ me off.”

“Mmhn,” Daryl says noncommittally. “We’ll see.” He raises his eyebrows, like it’s a challenge, though he’s fighting a losing battle with the smile threatening to break free across his face. It’s one that spreads from ear to ear and is every kind of endearing, though Rick chooses wisely not to say anything. 

He also doesn’t call attention to the fact that they’re bickering about _bed space_ like an old, married couple would. Just keeps the moment in his heart, a tiny pearl of warmth he’ll keep locked away, a treasure, because fantasies like _old_ and _married_ don’t feature in the kind of life Rick’s had. Not the way realities like _heartbreak_ and _pain_ do.

Of course, that means Rick has to keep his quip about which one of them is going to steal the sheets to himself, which is a pity.

Daryl’s the last to slip under the covers, and there’s a rustling sound as he settles beneath them in his soft flannel shirt, the sleeves torn from it to make a rustic-looking tank top. He prods Rick with a bandage-padded finger, and motions for him to turn off the lamp on his side. “There’s a time for stayin’ up and talkin’,” Daryl says, with a twitch of his lips, like there’s nothing he’d rather do more. “But this ain’t it.”

“Right,” says Rick, reaching up to switch off the light. With the lights switched off, it’s suddenly too dark and quiet in the room, and it strikes Rick all at once that Daryl is less than a foot away. In the same _bed_. “Well, good night,” he adds, feeling somewhat sheepish since he’s waited until practically the end to say this. He could’ve said it as they were getting into bed, or turning out the lights, but of course Rick had to wait for the last possible moment, for some unintended dramatic effect.

“Yeah,” says Daryl softly. “It is one.” And before Rick can say he’d simply needed a _good night_ back, rather than an affirmation that this night was indeed an enjoyable one, Daryl says, “Now go the hell to sleep, before I…”

Daryl’s never able to make good on his threat, whatever it is, because as enjoyable as the day’s been, it’s also been an exhausting one, and it’s only a few seconds later before Rick hears the beginning of a soft snore from Daryl’s side of the bed. 

Rick folds his arms behind his head, and stares at the ceiling for a while longer, just listening to the sounds of Daryl’s breathing as it slows, his breaths lengthier and deeper as the minutes pass. And when it seems like forever has come and gone, Rick dares to shift gently on the mattress to look at Daryl.

Daryl’s turned away from him on the bed, but from where he is, Rick can still see the outline of his shoulders in the moonlight spilling in through the curtains. The sculpted curve of his arms. The long line of his neck that Rick would die a thousand times to kiss. He reaches out to brush his fingertips along the hair at the nape of Daryl’s neck, wondering at its softness. Because, sure, he’s had it in his face when they’re sharing a ride on Daryl’s bike, or felt it against his neck when Daryl’s fallen asleep against him, but he’s never touched it like this, so directly and so…intimately.

And maybe it’s the easy courage that Daryl being asleep lends Rick, because suddenly the brush of fingers against his hair isn’t _enough_ anymore. Rick needs to know more than just how Daryl’s hair feels between his fingers. 

He needs to know how Daryl feels in his arms. And he needs it so badly it _hurts_. 

So he shifts as close as he dares, before reaching out and slipping his arm over Daryl’s waist. Tucks himself right up against Daryl, his chest and belly hot against Daryl’s back, their hips aligned together, gentle. Breathes in the smell of Daryl, stronger than any scent he could leave behind in an old shirt, and smiles, because this is the _source_ of Rick’s comfort, the wellspring of everything he’s ever needed and wanted. 

Daryl’s arm twitches in Rick’s hold, and Rick stills instantly, afraid that Daryl’s woken up and will find them in this position, but then Daryl whimpers, the way he does when he’s having a nightmare, the only time Rick’s ever seen him vulnerable in such a way. And to make up for all the times he’d wished he could hold Daryl, could soothe him when Daryl had whimpered and tossed and turned, before finding comfort in curling against Rick’s sleeping bag on long nights in the wilderness, Rick tugs him in closer. Pulls Daryl into his arms, slowly, where it’s safe and warm.

“Shh,” he murmurs, too soft for Daryl to really pick up the words, but hoping the sound of his soothing will make it through. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

He’s caught off-guard when Daryl flails in his grasp, but eventually Daryl settles and Rick’s satisfied enough when Daryl’s breathing evens out again, like Rick’s arms are a comfort indeed. Is even more pleased when Daryl shifts back against him, like his body’s honed in on the source of warmth in the bed and is trying its darndest to cling in hopes of more heat. 

_This is what it could be like,_ thinks Rick. _You and Daryl, like this every night, for the rest of your lives. You could have this, if you just tell him the truth._

_And you won’t have to pretend, or wait until he’s sleeping, to hold him like you want to._

But then he’s revisiting the endless loop of _what do I say_ and _what do I do if he says no_ , and in the end, it frustrates Rick even more, because these feelings he’s been bottling up have had nowhere to go, and he _needs_ to get them out, needs to tell him, needs _him_. Rick’s tempted one day, over coffee, or cookies, or nothing at all, to just say _There’s someone I’m in love with_ , and before Daryl could say anything about it either way, he’d cover Daryl’s hand with his own and add, _It’s you_.

At the same time, he’s more afraid than ever that if it all goes south, like Rick’s half-sure it will, he’ll lose Daryl—and in him, lose not only the one he’s cherished for so long, but a confidante, a friend. Maybe his _best_ friend.

It’s easy enough to wish like he always has, that the burden won’t fall on _him_ ; that maybe Daryl will just take Rick in his arms one day, and snort, _Christ almighty, you’re thinkin’ too hard again_ , and kiss him under a harvest moon, or some other fantasy fairytale backdrop that serves just as well.

Except Daryl hasn’t done anything of that nature. Nothing obvious that’d tell Rick, _you’re not alone in this, because I’ve fallen for you just as hard_.

And then Rick has to wonder about that, because as he breathes in the gentle kiwi scent of Daryl’s shampoo—bought on discount because the bottle cap was broken—he thinks of Daryl moving to a place that’s between Rick’s and the station he works at. Thinks of Daryl offering him the bed first, or pretending he needs a drink when it’s Rick who’s thirsty, and always, _always_ offering him the first, the best of everything. 

Offering the best of _himself_ , through his small, nearly unnoticeable kindnesses.

He has to wonder if Daryl _is_ trying to say the same things, but without words. 

Rick lets himself enjoy the heat of Daryl’s body resting snug against his as he ponders that thought for a while. But of course, it’s not long before he recalls _Your place, or mine?_ after they’d finished fishing, and how badly Rick had misinterpreted that.

In the end, he decides it’s better to be safe than sorry later, but he’s found his resolve, at least: he’ll take a page from Daryl’s book, because if the telling’s not working, then Rick’s going to try _showing_ him, like he thinks Daryl’s doing. 

And if that doesn’t work, well—Rick will deal with the fallout from that later. 

It’s with this thought that he finds his eyes drifting shut, and even though he means to release Daryl, to resume their original positions on the bed, Daryl warm against him feels so _good_ and Rick can’t find it in himself to let go. So he buries his face in Daryl’s hair, and breathes in the combination of kiwis and clean sweat and motor oil. Tugs Daryl closer to his chest, and lets himself drift off deeper and deeper, until he’s reached the quietest depths of sleep.

~

Rick’s woken by the vibration of his phone beneath his pillow, a reminder of the alarm he’d set the night before, but the biggest surprise he wakes to isn’t that.

It’s _Daryl_.

Somehow, during the night, Daryl’s wound his way further into Rick’s embrace, pressing himself snug against Rick’s chest and stomach, until there’s no space left between them. Has a hand resting light against Rick’s on his waist, like he’s closing the circuit they form.

Rick’s not quite sure what to make of it. Maybe Daryl was used to having a bedmate and this was how he slept when he had one? But Daryl said there hadn’t been anyone else, ever, and Rick’s pretty sure he doesn’t share his bed with _Merle_.

There isn’t much time to ponder this, though, because he’s still got to make it to work and finish his paperwork, all while avoiding the sniping of his chief and the shrews doing the filing at the front desk.

He watches Daryl for a minute, two, and when he’s sure Daryl’s still asleep, Rick lets his arms slide away from Daryl, gently. Shifts his way off the mattress, careful, so he doesn’t wake Daryl up as he leaves. And because Daryl looks so warm and adorably sleep-rumpled, Rick can’t _not_ give him a little goodbye kiss. So he kisses his palm and touches it to Daryl’s feather-soft hair. Pretends as he’s leaving for work that they’re sharing a _have a good day_ kiss.

Daryl, for his part, just shifts in his sleep, and curls into the space on the bed Rick’s vacated, a tiny furrow forming in his brow. Like he’s disappointed that the warm body that was just there isn’t there any longer.

It’s an expression that Rick can’t bear to see, so as quick as he dares, he brushes aside the hair that’s fallen over Daryl’s brow. Leans in to press the lightest, breathiest kiss to his forehead. And wonder of all wonders, it _works_ , because it relaxes the furrow in his brow, and Daryl makes a soft, snuffling sound, turns over, and burrows back into the sheets, safe in his blanket nest once more.

_One day_ , Rick decides, as he tiptoes toward the bedroom door. He looks back once before leaving, taking a moment to appreciate the image of Daryl sleeping, his eyelashes fluttering golden against his cheeks and his hair the hue of polished mahogany in the coming dawn. 

_One day, I won’t have to hide, and I’ll kiss you like I just did every morning._

_But only if you want me to._

_And I sure hope that you_ do.


	9. Building Bridges

~

It becomes easier and easier after that to head over to Daryl’s after work for a movie, or a quick meal out, or to cook a simple meal together. Rick had missed the way they’d moved together in the kitchen while baking, and it’s easy enough to talk Daryl into joining him in the making of home-cooked meals, to recreate the relaxed atmosphere they’d had.

The fact that the pizza delivery guy, Glenn, knows their order by heart now—half with double pepperoni, sausage and cheese, and the other half vegetarian, even if Daryl says they’re just fooling themselves—might have something to do with Rick’s decision too.

They have Daryl’s oversalted spaghetti and Rick’s burnt lasagna for the first few days, but as time goes by, they get better at varying their repertoire and start adding the meat from their hunts to their dishes, along with whole _vegetables_ that aren’t steamed within an inch of their lives. And when Rick finds a slow-cooker from his sister, a housewarming gift from years ago, he brings that over too, for experiments with soups and stews and breads, many of which end up as lunch the next day for him and Daryl.

When Rick needs to stay over, they don’t even need to talk about it anymore. Daryl just glances at the clock before looking over at Rick with an arched brow, and Rick just nods his confirmation, and without further ado, they’ll get ready for bed and settle in with _good night_ ’s or _see you in the morning_ ’s. And when Rick notices Daryl starting to show signs of exhaustion, they’ll switch it up, and Daryl will have the convenience of being closer to the bike shop, as he stays over at Rick’s. Where of course, Rick has a toothbrush ready for him, and one of his own shirts that is surprisingly form-fitting on Daryl, despite being a little tight in the shoulders.

Of course, Rick doesn’t immediately go for the covert cuddle every night; he just tries for it once in a while when he’s absolutely _sure_ Daryl’s asleep.

But all in all, Rick loves this, being able to come home to Daryl at the end of the day. To spend time with him, whether it’s through burning the pasta, watching a movie, or snuggling against Daryl when he’s fast asleep. 

By now they’ve settled into a comfortable routine of hunting and fishing on all their weekends off together, instead of every other. And this new arrangement, including the catching of a new movie at the theatre after work in the evenings, or replaying older ones either at Rick’s or Daryl’s when they’re too tired to go out, means they’ve started seeing each other almost every _day_ , instead of just weekends and the odd evening in the week. 

Things have got to come to a head soon, Rick decides, so he steels his resolve, and gathers the courage he’d found that day they first shared a bed. Makes sure he _shows_ Daryl how he feels, instead of simply telling, because actions speak louder than words, and if one’s not working out for him, perhaps the other will. 

One such demonstration of Rick’s resolve is in the way he starts touching Daryl more. Nothing deeply intimate or awkward, but small, simple touches. Like making sure he holds some part of Daryl’s elbow or arm when they’re talking. Gentle presses of fingers, light and warm to Daryl’s skin.

“How about this loaf of banana bread?” he’ll say, tapping Daryl’s elbow to get his attention.

Or, “I’ve never gutted a snake like this before,” he’ll nod, with a grateful touch to Daryl’s knee.

Rick returns every touch Daryl gives him, from back pats to shoulder pats, though the one time Rick tries for the same belly pat, Daryl gives him an odd look, so he doesn’t try _that_ again. 

When Rick starts feeling more comfortable with touches, he makes sure to let his touches linger. Allows his fingers to brush across the curve of Daryl’s shoulder, slow. Or covers Daryl’s hand with his, when he’s pointing something out. 

And in the home setting, it’s become something of an unspoken routine between them, that when they stay in to watch movies, Rick will just drop his feet into Daryl’s lap, or the back of his head, and they’ll end up balancing the popcorn between them like they're two symbiotic creatures become one, and the popcorn’s their life support. It works especially well since the loveseat facing the television is small in both their places, but comfortable enough for just the two of them. 

But Daryl doesn’t seem to notice any of Rick’s efforts, or maybe he’s just treated it as the easy progression of whatever it is they have between them, because while he doesn’t flinch away, he doesn’t make any mention of the new and extra touches, one way or another. Just nods, and pats the fingers Rick’s rested on him, like he’s always done, an acknowledgement of the touch, but nothing more.

Rick’s left wondering if a bigger demonstration is in order. If he should step up his game and actually veer into the territory of not-quite-friendly-but-somewhat-intimate touches, even if he’s not sure how those will be received by Daryl. Or if Rick’s even ready to try those yet.

So before he knows it, Halloween’s passed them by, the months running away on Rick with every day he spends testing and waiting and wondering. Daryl had come over on the day to do a horror movie marathon, bringing with him lime punch and a bulk sack of store-bought candy labelled _Ghoul Gruel_.

“What are you supposed to be?” Rick had asked when Daryl rang the doorbell. And to Daryl’s _what the hell Rick, it’s me_ , Rick had simply squinted at him and said, “You supposed to be some kinda biker?” before letting himself voraciously appreciate the way Daryl’s cutoff sleeves accentuated his arms.

“Yeah, I’m some kinda biker,” Daryl had snorted, nudging his way past Rick to set the candy down. “What about you?”

“I’m a plainclothes officer,” said Rick smugly. “They look just like everyone else.”

Daryl had said after a dissatisfied grunt, that _The Addams Family_ didn’t count as a Halloween movie, so if Rick could stop quoting from that, maybe they could get along. 

Rick had only laughed at that, and steadied Daryl with a hand to his arm as he took off his boots, because the fact that Daryl recognized his quote meant they got along just _fine_.

And even if they’d been continually interrupted in their viewing of Bela Lugosi’s _Dracula_ and Boris Karloff’s _The Mummy_ by different batches of adorable tykes in homemade costumes—including a knee-high Batman with a plaid tablecloth cape dragging at his tiny feet—they’d spent the night after the trick-or-treating hours gorging on leftover candy and soft drinks. Laughing over cheesy movie effects and over-the-top acting.

But then Thanksgiving’s around the corner, and Rick finds that he hasn’t made any headway at all into showing Daryl how he feels, besides his slow, lingering touches, or the same small, thoughtful actions he tries to return in kind. Since Daryl’s obviously not responding to these new and extra touches, Rick’s considering what he could do to really drive the point home. But then he remembers it’s Thanksgiving and this isn’t all about Rick, or the feelings of his that have nowhere to go.

So instead of worrying about The Next Big Thing, Rick decides it’d be good to just do something nice for Daryl. Something that doesn’t involve the _telling_ or _showing_ that Rick hasn’t had much luck with so far.

“What’re you doin’ next Sunday?” Rick asks, as they’re coming back from a hunt. They’d just been up to their elbows in blood short minutes ago, from gutting the deer Daryl brought down, so it’s probably not the best time to ask. But then again, there’s no time like the present. 

“Thanksgivin’ weekend?” Daryl hitches the deer higher on his shoulder, and shrugs. “Why?”

“We have this dinner at my sister’s every year,” Rick says. He isn’t sure if Daryl’s ever had a proper one when he was younger, or if he’d even had any with Merle, but he’s thinking this is a nice gesture on its own. “Was wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Or not,” Rick adds quickly, when he sees Daryl’s eyebrows practically rise into his hairline. “I mean, if you’re busy, I get it—”

“Ain’t busy,” Daryl says. “Just…thought it was a family dinner and all. That it oughta be family that goes.”

 _And you’re part of that family_ , Rick wants to say, because god knows how many times Daryl’s saved him being killed by a rampaging buck when they’re hunting, yanking him free of ice when they’re fishing. But the words stay stuck in his mouth, like honey past its sell-by date, and all Rick manages is an awkward “I’d love it if you met them.”

A secret part of Rick whispers that it’s the equivalent of _meeting the parents_ , but his parents are long gone anyway, and Rick pushes the thought away, just focusing on what Daryl’s got to say.

Daryl shifts on his feet, quiet, but he doesn’t make their age-old joke of _why, do you need to bring a date?_ anymore, and neither does Rick. By now it’s assumed that they’ll be going together, whether it’s a party, a dinner, or a charity event Rick’s been roped into at the station. Hell, it even applies to awkward drinking sessions with Merle and his buddies, most of which end with Daryl and Rick having to haul Merle’s drunk ass home. 

“All right,” Daryl says, after a moment. “We bringin’ anythin’?”

Rick shakes his head. “Haven’t thought of what to bring yet.”

“We got _this_ ,” Daryl says, shaking what’s left of the deer in Rick’s direction. “Gonna smoke it and get us some venison later anyway. Could bring that.”

Rick’s reminded of Daryl being thoughtful and considerate all over again, and something tightens in his chest at the thought. Warms something deep in his belly. “Yeah, that’ll do just fine,” he says, smile on his face like it usually is these days, because _Daryl’s_ put that there. “Pick you up at five, on the day?”

“All right,” Daryl nods, and as they make their way back to town, Rick notices the little answering smile on Daryl’s face too.

~

It’s well past five-thirty by the time they arrive at Rick’s sister’s place, and Rachel meets them on the porch, greeting them both in her snowman’s apron—redecorated with purple crayon by her kids—with a huge hug for each.

“Get in here, you,” she laughs, ushering them into the house and making sure Daryl enters first, while Rick brings up the rear, with their sack of venison.

Rick’s grateful for the fact that she doesn’t badger him with questions about who Daryl is, and what he is to Rick, just welcoming him in like she would any other member of their family. She does stop Rick in the kitchen when Daryl’s helping set out plates though, and mouths _we’re gonna talk about this after_ with a sly, secretive smile.

It’s a grand affair—Rachel’s really pulled out all the stops this year, bringing in a plump, juicy turkey from a farm a few miles out of town, baking it to culinary perfection, and fixing up her own spiced stuffing for it. She’s also made a selection of pies, from steaming hot shepherd’s pie to pumpkin, and a mean banana bread pudding that has Rick trying to make sure his eyes aren’t bigger than his stomach.

He’s wondering if Rachel went to all this extra effort because Rick said he was bringing a guest this year, and as Rachel catches Rick’s glance, her eyes travel between him and Daryl and she _winks_ from beneath auburn curls, making him think that she _did_.

The table’s big enough for the six of them that they have to pass the main courses on down, to make sure everyone gets their share. But neither Rick nor Daryl have to ask the other to pass the salt or pepper; Daryl just absently tosses a pinch of salt into Rick’s mashed potatoes, and Rick scatters a touch of pepper onto Daryl’s slice of turkey, a motion that earns them a knowing little grin from Rachel.

Rick just rolls his eyes at her. _Not what you think it means_.

 _Uh huh_ , Rachel motions back, her flippant little hand wave meaning she’s utterly unconvinced.

Rachel’s husband Greg raises a brow when Daryl starts licking turkey stuffing off his fingers, and the cranberry sauce, then scarfs down a curved handful of mashed potatoes. But when Daryl smiles, small and shy and says, “This is the best Thanksgivin’ meal I’ve _ever had_ ,” Rachel scoops another helping of everything onto his plate and calls him adorable, effectively quelling any and all disapproval at the table.

Daryl fields questions from Rachel’s two kids with more patience than even Rick can muster sometimes—who his favourite Disney princess is (Cinderella), where he got his awesome-looking gloves (a Harley shop in town), his favourite color in the _whole wide world_ (blue, but only one particular shade), and a slew of other questions that leaves them open-mouthed and in awe from the depth of his knowledge, Disney and motorcycles combined. But as any guest knows, the true test comes when answering questions from the man of the house.

Rachel’s in the middle of mouthing _Yeah, I know just what shade of_ blue _Daryl likes_ at Rick while Daryl’s back is turned, staring him straight in the cobalt-blues he and Rachel share, when Greg clears his throat.

“So, Rick says you’ve gone hunting together,” Greg says. They’re all starting to make their way through pudding, and between one mouthful and the next, Rick wants to laugh at Greg’s heavy-handed way of making conversation. God help him, but he’s _trying_.

Daryl stops eating long enough to grunt out a _Yeah_ , then keeps right on digging into the pudding. 

“I, uh,” Greg tries. “I go with a few buddies sometimes. You got any tips for hunting in the fall? The kind of game we should be looking for?”

“Maybe,” says Daryl. He pauses to consider if Greg’s mocking him, before finally saying, “What do you hunt with?”

They eventually fall to discussing the best seasons to go hunting, which game’s better found when, and by the time they’re almost done eating, Greg’s badgering Daryl to set up a small expedition with him and couple of his buddies.

“Uh,” Daryl starts, before catching Rick’s eye. “Sure, I guess. I mean, if Rick comes too.”

Rick can’t hide the smile that stretches from ear to ear. “I’m sure we can find a time that works for all of us,” he says. And he’s glad for it, glad that both Greg and Rachel are giving Daryl an _in_ , making him feel like he belongs. Like he’s wanted. Like they’re interested in what _Daryl_ has to say.

They all laugh when Daryl says he’ll bring them back a buck next year, but it’s a good kind of laughter, the kind Rick thinks Daryl hasn’t had in his life all that much. And it warms his heart when Daryl smiles too, a shy, secret smile that Rick wishes he could put on Daryl’s face more often.

 _Next year_ , Rick thinks, a burst of fondness rising in his chest as he watches Daryl, thinking of all the Thanksgiving dinners they could share. _And every year after_.

It’s just him and Rachel in the kitchen after dinner, washing dishes and drying them to put away. Rick dries each dish Rachel hands to him, as they watch her two kids from the window, roping Daryl into their game of snowball tag. Watch him chase them down, dodging their attacks, and tossing snowballs at their feet, gentle, before letting himself get beaned in the face with one in turn. Hear the kids giggle as they scamper away, clearly _not it_ again. 

“He’s good with them,” says Rachel.

Rick manages a fond _mmhmm yeah_ , as he runs the cloth over the dishes, dredging up whatever’s left of the water on them. “Figured he would be,” Rick says. “Daryl used to teach kids to fish at one point.”

Rachel hums, as she takes this tidbit in. “He’s good with you too,” she adds, with no preamble at all.

There’s another _mmhmm yeah_ coming down the line, before Rick realizes what she’s said, and sets the plate he’s drying down a little too hard. “What’re you—that’s not—well, I _guess_ , but—” He shakes his head, caught between wanting to say _we’re not like that_ and _I’m glad you think so_ , but all that happens is a quick, embarrassing flush of heat, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, something Rachel’s never failed to tease him for.

Except she doesn’t tease. Not this time. 

“Rick. _Rick_.” She sets a hand on his shoulder, gentle. “It’s all right if you are, you know. In love with him.” Rachel says this like they can all see it, like there’s no way for Rick to hide how he feels. 

“I can’t be,” Rick says, his hands braced on the table now, shoulders squared as he swallows, hard. “I shouldn’t be.” _Because it’s too hard, keeping it to myself. Because I’m afraid. Because I—_

“Why not?”

“It’s too soon, after Lori, I mean that was a _mess_ , you know that—” Even as he says it, Rick knows it’s not a viable reason; he’d decided months back that it was Daryl he’d wanted. Only Daryl, as he was, and not as anyone’s replacement.

“Please,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. “Lori was so _last_ year.”

Rick bites back the giggle threatening to bubble up, at the comparison of Lori to old clothes gone out of style. It’s good that Rachel’s confirmed the absurdity of that excuse for him, but it’s something else that’s eating at him, the biggest fear beneath all that, something he reveals in full when his sister pinches his arm, playful, and says _whatsamatter then, what’s keeping you from him?_ Throws suds in his direction, as she says _all I hear are excuses_.

“I don’t think he’s interested,” Rick says all in one breath. He rakes a hand through his hair, thinking back, wondering if there’s been a sign, _any_ sign, of Daryl feeling the same way too—things that weren’t just words and banter and teasing.

Could it have been in Daryl’s frequent shoulder claps? But Shane and the others at the station did that too. Or could it have been the belly pats? Maybe it was the way he’d tap Rick’s elbow when they were walking and he wanted to show Rick something. Or the way their hands would brush together when they were eating. Or the way they’d sit together, knees touching, hips perfectly aligned.

And Rick can’t help but keep coming back to the way Daryl had wound arms around Rick’s waist, his shoulders, patiently teaching him the right way to fish. The way he’d said _five minutes from the station_ , like that was the whole reason he’d picked where he was living now. 

Rachel just laughs, and it’s bright, the sound, like bells on Christmas morning. “Oh, Rick,” she says, “you’re thinking _way_ too hard. He’s here, isn’t he? No one agrees to come to a Thanksgiving dinner without it meaning something, do they?” 

It’s true enough, Rick supposes. He remembers all the years Shane had begged off on eating dinner with Rick’s family once they were no longer teenagers, with a _That’s just weird, Rick_ , or some other poorly made excuse.

Rachel nudges Rick in the side, her elbow a little too sharp, her voice singsong as she says, “You know, I think big bro could use a little _happiness_ for once.”

Rick sighs and opens his mouth to say something in response, something most likely scathing about how he’s _got_ enough happiness in his life, thank you—even if he has an inkling of why that’s so—but whatever he meant to say is lost when the door blows open, and a swirl of cold wind gusts in from the outside. 

“Uncle Rick!” cries Lucas, stumbling in, his booted feet pattering over cracked linoleum. He’s the oldest of Rachel’s kids and has declared himself official spokesperson of the two of them. “Aury wants to know if you and Uncle Daryl can stay to help us make snowmen! Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease _please_?”

Behind him, Rick can see Lucas’ sister, Aurora, stumbling toward the house in snow that’s too high for her tiny legs, trying to catch up to her big brother. Watches Daryl scoop her up like a sack of rice and toss her over a shoulder to trudge towards the house, listening to her giggle as he does so, a sound so happy and sweet it makes Rick’s heart hurt. 

“ _Uncle_ Daryl?” Rick says, turning to Lucas with a raised brow. 

“Yeah!” says Lucas. “We need help putting the body and the head on.” He flings a mitted hand toward the one giant mound of snow sitting in the corner of the yard.

 _Right_ , Rick remembers. _The woes of the overly ambitious snowman base_. Of course they’d need help getting the body and head on, since the base is probably as tall as Lucas is. But there’s another issue at hand that has Rick blinking like a confused owl at Lucas. 

“ _Uncle_ Daryl?” he says again, and this time, it’s enough to give Lucas pause, to make him look down at his booted feet, the telltale Grimes’ curls falling over his eyes. 

“Well, yeah. ‘Cause we thought…you know. Me and Aury thought you were like… _together_ together.” Lucas toes at the floor, unable to finish, his face a bright cherry red, before Rachel shoos him out of the kitchen, telling him he’s not allowed to wear his boots inside the house. 

“Did you put him up to that?” Rick demands, when Rachel’s finished shaking snow off her apron and turns the tap on again to wash what’s left of the dishes. _Uncle Daryl_. Rick shouldn’t like how that sounds as much as he does.

Rachel scoffs and throws up her hands, exasperated. “Kid never does half of what I tell him, what makes you think he’ll start now?”

“Fine. _Fine_ ,” Rick concedes, as he dries the last plates. “It’s just…I don’t know about it yet,” he says, even though something in his heart says he _does_ know. Says there are things he could try besides what he’s done, that he’s just too afraid to act on yet. 

Says to take the next, obvious steps, since nothing he’s been doing has worked.

“Don’t know about what?” 

There’s absolute silence from both Rick and Rachel as Daryl pushes the door open, careful, Aurora clinging to his back like a baby monkey. And Rick has to take a moment to catch his breath, because there’s a light dusting of snow in Daryl’s hair, and his cheeks are flushed a lovely cherry red, and all Rick wants to do is kiss that silly grin on Daryl’s face. 

“Rick?” Daryl tries again, when neither of them answer him. 

And while Rick tries not to look like he’s been staring like a shocked guppy, Rachel says something like _got some cleaning to do in the dining room_ , letting Aurora clamber down from Daryl’s back and swinging her up into her arms, as she leaves the two of them in the kitchen.

“Rachel was just askin’ me about our plans for Christmas,” Rick says, recovering quickly. “And I was just tellin’ her I don’t know about that, because we haven’t decided yet.” Then he kicks himself mentally, because he’s just so naturally slipped into using words like _our_ and _we_ that he hasn’t stopped to think if Daryl finds it awkward. 

Daryl nods, like that all makes sense, doesn’t comment on Rick’s slip of tongue. “Guess I gotta see if Merle’s got plans for us, but, uh.” He pauses. “If you’re not doin’ anythin’…” 

Rick watches Daryl lick his lips, studies the tiny sliver of pink that darts out to run over his lower lip, anxious, and wills himself not to think of licking into Daryl’s mouth, to taste the sweetness of his tongue. 

“I’m sure we’ll figure somethin’ out,” Rick offers, relieved when Daryl nods a _yeah_ and helps him put the dishes away without another word on the matter.

By the time they’ve finished helping with the cleanup in the dining room, indulged in building mutant snowmen with Lucas and Aurora before putting them to sleep, and Rick’s kissed his little sister good night (of _course_ she makes kissing motions at Rick and jerks her head at Daryl when Daryl’s not looking), it’s near midnight. Rick’s more than tempted to just take Daryl home with him, but they’ve both got some prep to do before work the next day, so he ends up walking Daryl to his doorstep after dropping him off. Just wanting to make the moment last, because it means one more minute with Daryl. 

All in all, Rick can say it’s been one of the loveliest nights he’s had, and he’s working his way up to telling Daryl this, but all that comes out is a parrot of Rachel’s words from earlier. 

“You’re good with them,” Rick says. “Her kids.” Then he shuts his eyes briefly and breathes out through his nose, because yes, it was true, but he’d meant to say more than that. _Damn it_.

Daryl blinks. “Didn’t think I would be. But thanks.” His smile is small but genuine, and it melts the last piece of ice lodged in Rick’s heart.

_Have you ever wanted any of your own?_

It’s a question Rick’s burning to have answered, and before he knows it, he’s blurted it out loud, and Daryl’s furrowing his brow, probably wondering why the hell Rick’s asking him this. 

“Never really thought about it,” Daryl shrugs. He flicks a glance up at Rick before his gaze settles firmly on his toes. “Well, maybe. Depends who they’re with, though. Gotta be the…right person and all…” 

His voice trails off, but when he meets Rick’s eyes again, there’s something in them Rick can’t read, an odd brightness to his eyes that Rick hasn’t noticed before, and he realizes they’ve just had _the talk_. Just like that. And he could just kiss Daryl, because Rick’s thought the same thing too, something in him having turned from _having_ kids to _adopting_ them, but then Rick backpedals mentally, thinking _oh my god_ and _is this for real, am I thinking of kids already_. 

_Maybe you could start with a couple of kittens, or puppies_ , his mind supplies helpfully. _The ones at the shelter you passed the other day, named Coral and Jude_. Except that thought has Rick backpedalling even faster, thinking _no, no_ , no, _that is_ way _too soon_. _I haven’t even told him I_ —

Daryl, for his part, just stands there, quiet, like he’s patiently waiting for Rick to _do_ something.

It feels just like the night Rick had walked Daryl to his bike, after their first fishing trip at the trout pond. When he’d held onto Daryl’s bike, knowing now he’d wanted to hold onto Daryl, a silent _don’t go_ pressed into the handlebar, while Daryl had waited there, silent, his hesitance seeming to say _then give me a reason to stay_.

And now, _now_ Rick knows what that something, that reason should be, but he mumbles a quick _good night_ instead, and turns on his heel. Marches out of there before he does something inexplicably stupid. Something he can’t take back. 

Something like kissing the breath from Daryl’s lungs and telling him _I’m in love with you, and I have been since the start_. 

He can’t bear to take the chance, because he’s afraid of seeing the light fade from Daryl’s eyes. Watching Daryl’s face close off as he says any of the following, depending on the mood Rick’s words put him in. 

If Daryl was feeling particularly kind: _I’m sorry, Rick, but it ain’t like that between us_.

If Daryl was deeply offended: _I ain’t gay, do you I look gay to you?_

And maybe the worst mood, the pitying one: _All right, let’s try this, if that’s what you want_ , one that’d make Rick’s hopes soar, before Daryl dashed them into the ground soon after, with _this ain’t workin’ out, sorry_.

Rick’s not ready for _any_ of those answers right now, because each of them would hurt in a different way. 

So he stalks away, heart filled to the brim with everything he can’t reveal, swallows back his hopes, his dreams, and the words he’d wanted so badly to say. 

_I adore you._

_I admire you._

_I love you_.

If his life could play out like a movie, Daryl would sneak up from behind him, and wind arms around his waist, gentle, and Rick would _know_ , in a blinding blaze of light, that the feelings he’d been harbouring all this time were returned. Or Daryl would call him back, chasing him down in the drifting snow, his cheeks flushed red with the cold as he fumbled through a _Rick, I—I think I_ — and Rick would mumble _God, yes, me too_ , and they’d get it right between them, after all. 

Or Rick would turn around and find that the courage that fled him had somehow returned in full force, enough to tell Daryl, _finally_ , that—

But it isn’t a movie, and this isn’t a light-hearted rom-com, and it isn’t upper crust London, where magic and romance and good things seem to happen. It’s the depth of winter in fucking _Georgia_ , it’s cold as hell, and it only gets all the colder as Rick drives away from Daryl’s place, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick's nephew, Lucas, is based on Luke, one of the children in the prison in Season 4 of The Walking Dead. Photos of him with Rick and Daryl can be found [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/ld%20with%20rick.jpg~original) and [here](http://s7.photobucket.com/user/slamduncan21/media/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/ld%20with%20daryl.jpg.html).
> 
> I just want him to live, through this fic. :3 
> 
> *whispers* _I just want everyone to live._ :'c


	10. Laying The Groundwork

~

It’s not long before Christmas is fast approaching.

Neither Rick nor Daryl bring up the talk they had that night on Thanksgiving, and Rick’s glad, even if a little disappointed, that they’ve returned to the status quo—but even then, the status quo’s since shifted.

Now, when they stay in, they snuggle under the same blanket because it’s cold out. Rick’s only got the one big one, warm and quilted with patterns of candy canes and Christmas wreathes, a present from his mother, and at Daryl’s place, they’ve only got the one fleece blanket that Merle hasn’t borrowed to jack off with, because according to Merle it’s too scratchy and would probably chafe his balls. 

Small blessings, Rick supposes. But it’s a change from the accidental touches that happen when they share a bed, or when Rick secretly curls into Daryl’s side while he’s asleep, because this time Daryl’s _awake_ and willingly sharing the same space with him. In more intimate ways than before.

Now, Rick doesn’t even have to ask Daryl if he’ll join him for the police department retirement party or the various charity events; it’s just assumed Daryl will come, even if Daryl will hem and haw and say _that ain’t my thing_ before showing up, regardless.

And now, they’ve even started taking longer walks through the local park—because game, while easier to track, is harder to hunt in the snow for Rick—and made a schedule of old Christmas movies, one for each day they can spend together. 

Rick had felt something bright and warm unfurl in his chest, when they’d compared lists and found more than half of them were the same. And Daryl had called the movie experience they’d planned The Marathon To End All Marathons, but Rick’s been hoping that maybe there won’t _be_ an end to the marathons. To snuggling beneath cozy blankets with cups of hot cocoa. 

To _Daryl_.

They’re on a rare day off together today—Rick, because holidays always brought a rash of poorly planned break-ins and Daryl, because more clients were stopping by to get their bikes checked before the snows set in too thick—and Rick’s working on gathering what’s left of his courage to show Daryl how he feels. Wracking his brain for some hints to drop, or a way to just bludgeon Daryl with the truth. The other alternative’s a middle-ground approach, where Rick finds a way to lead into the conversation, so he doesn’t dream up all the worst-case scenarios and panic, leaving Daryl hanging like he had on Thanksgiving.

But it’s still early, and Rick’s finding he’d rather enjoy the day for now, instead of struggling through the rest of it after a botched confession. 

“Look at this,” Daryl breathes now, brushing Rick’s elbow with his fingers, light. “Just _look_ at it.”

Their burdens of bags and boxes are considerably lighter now, since they’d stopped back at Rick’s to drop off the food they bought earlier, including spiced apple pudding Rachel swears is to die for, pecan pie baked to golden perfection, a rack of store-marinated ribs, and a quart of eggnog. And that’s not even including the deer they’d taken down before the snows set in, or the leftover beers Merle had ‘gifted’ them for the holidays, saying he’d be out of town with his buddies for Christmas, and _someone_ ought to enjoy them.

Rick suspects Merle’s just giving them space, especially when he’d pulled Rick aside at the shop two days before—after several weeks of giving Rick the suspicious stinkeye, as if he’d finally cottoned on to how Rick felt about Daryl—and said, as if the words pained him, “Listen, officer. It’s awful nice of you to invite me to your dinner. But I ain’t spendin’ Christmas listenin’ to you two—” and here he made a rude motion with his hands, along with some noises Rick really could’ve done without, “—all night, so you better be treatin’ my baby brother _right_.” He’d followed that up with an awful cracking of knuckles. And while Rick had tried his darndest not to look intimidated as he nodded a _will do_ , he found it a wonder how everyone assumed he and Daryl were together, when he had yet to make his feelings known.

Regardless, Rick thinks they’ve pretty much finished their Christmas shopping by now, in gifts and food and drink, but Daryl’s looking entirely too adorable like this, nose pressed up against the frosted glass of the bakery just outside the mall. 

“Can’t see what you’re talkin’ about,” says Rick, even though he can see perfectly well what’s got Daryl gazing through the window, his expression soft and dreamy. “Let’s take a better look inside.” Hurries into the bakery before Daryl can pull him away. 

Daryl follows grudgingly, the bell over the door giving a bright little jingle as they step inside, and all at once there’s an aroma of warm bread, the butter of perfectly iced cookies, and the sweetness of fruit in the freshly baked and decorated cakes.

There’s a young girl loading the display with kiwi-slice tarts, her shoulder-length blonde hair tied up in a neat bun to keep it out of her eyes. A furrow of deep concentration creases her brow, and Rick can tell that she must be new at working here, but she gives them a shy, genuine smile when she notices them. 

“Mom,” she calls, ducking into the kitchens briefly. “ _Mom_. We’ve got customers.” To Rick and Daryl, she adds, “Sorry, I—the cash register, I haven’t learned—” before a rose-red flush fills her cheeks, obscuring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and she disappears into the safety of the kitchens.

“Can I help you boys with anything?” says the lady that steps up to the counter, the name tag pinned to her apron reading _Carol_. There’s grey in her close-cropped curls, and the cord her eyeglasses dangle from is nearly frayed through, but her smile’s the biggest as Rick’s ever seen today. Christmas shopping tends to bring out the worst in retail attendants and other shoppers, Rick’s found, though he _gets_ it, he really does. So this friendliness is a welcome change.

“Just lookin’,” Daryl grunts, tugging on Rick’s elbow like he’s in a hurry to leave. Like Daryl’s afraid he doesn’t deserve to be in here, somehow. “ _C’mon_ , Rick.”

Rick strokes a _hold on a sec_ into Daryl’s arm, before taking a closer look at what had held Daryl’s attention so raptly.

It’s a strawberry mousse cake, with a layer of custard pudding hidden in the middle, and even if the sides are frosted with a simple sprinkling of icing sugar, it’s the top that really takes Rick’s breath away; spread on the surface is a thin layer of raspberry gel, a perfect circle formed with five dollops of whipped cream that look as soft as clouds, and strawberry halves adorning the rest of the cake, canted at minute angles from a second, smaller circle of whipped cream. 

The icing on the cake, Rick reflects, taking a moment to excuse the pun, is that one of the strawberries has been replaced by a tiny, rotund figure of Santa Claus, in the exact same shade of red. Like he’s trying to camouflage himself within the strawberries somehow, which is, Rick has to admit, quite adorable. 

But not as much as the one whose attention it caught.

Rick looks up at Daryl, not even bothering to disguise the love in his eyes, and Daryl must see something in his expression, something warm and soft and adoring, because he opens his mouth to protest, but Rick beats him to the punch. 

“I’d like to buy one of these, please,” says Rick. He points to the second cake in the display, as he nods toward Carol.

“ _No_ ,” says Daryl, immediate. “We don’t need that. Got plenty of food already.”

Rick shrugs off his concerns with a laugh. “Look, it’ll go with the beer and eggnog we already got. And if we have leftovers, we can just eat it through New Year’s.” He hardly thinks about it now, making plans with Daryl like he just assumes they’ll spend the holidays together. And by the tiny curl of a smile on Daryl’s mouth, it seems he doesn’t mind either.

“Guess we could even save a piece for Lucas and Aury,” Daryl says, sounding _shy_ , of all things. 

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, beaming, because he knows Daryl _loves_ those kids. Even volunteered to buy Lucas a pair of kid-sized motorcycle gloves (Lucas had wanted a pair _exactly_ like the ones Daryl had had when they’d all gone sledding), and Aurora her animal plushes earlier, while Rick took care of Rachel and Greg’s presents.

“Sorry, boys,” says Carol, apologetic, as she shuffles through some papers behind the counter. Slides a slip of paper across the counter, a form of some kind. “Those cakes in the window have to be ordered, but it’s only a few days before pickup. Did you still want one?”

“ _Yes_ ,” breathes Rick, his eyes bright. They’re not really tallying who’s bought what so far, but Rick knows it’s probably his turn now, and he wants to take the opportunity to do something nice for Daryl. From the way Daryl had spoken of his childhood, he hadn’t had the time to just be a _kid_ at Christmas, and somehow Rick can’t see Merle buying anything besides cheap beer and cigarettes when he’d had a little extra put aside.

Rick barely even looks at the form, just ticks a checkmark into every single box. And maybe it’s the excitement from their actually ordering a cake together that leads to it, but Rick even ticks one of the options at the bottom without reading too hard, because he sees the word _peppermint_ , and he knows Daryl _loves_ peppermint, so—

“Peppermint crunch costs extra,” Daryl frowns, nicking the form from Rick’s hands. Rubs out the mark Rick made until it’s only a greasy smudge on the page. 

Rick blinks. “It’s only a dollar more.”

Daryl hands back the paper, sans the peppermint crunch checkmark and snorts. “Don’t need none of that,” he says to Rick. “Just…just havin’ a cake with you’s enough already.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and there’s the lightest blush forming on his cheeks, one that’ll soon rival the red of their cake’s strawberries.

“All right,” Rick concedes. Better to go without the peppermint crunch than without the cake altogether. He tips a nod at Carol, to go ahead with the order. And even though he’d worried that Carol might not sell them the cake after all, or at least give them a look of disapproval after overhearing them, it turns out he’d worried for nothing; Carol just takes the form and slips it into the organizing rack by the cash register and beams at them a mile wide. 

“It’ll be ready by Thursday,” she says. “Someone from the shop will call the number you left us, and you boys can come on down.”

“Thursday,” Rick nods, smiling back. That’s perfect, because it means their cake will be ready just in time for Christmas Eve. He throws a quick glance in Daryl’s direction, and when Daryl gives him a tiny nod in return, Rick goes ahead and pays for their order.

They’re on their way out of the bakery when Rick catches sight of another cake, this one adjacent to the displays they’d been looking at earlier. It isn’t a Christmas cake, but it’s just as lovely, a white layered cream cake adorned with glazed mango slices and artfully carved kiwis for leaves, all in the shape of a heart. He wonders if it’s maybe too much to request that their cake be baked into the shape of a heart too, but Daryl’s already twitching his sleeve again, saying _C’mon, Rick, you ain’t no Daddy Warbucks_ and _I ain’t no lil’ orphan Annie_ , so he follows Daryl out willingly.

“All _right_ ,” Daryl says, pointed, when they’re a safe distance away from the evil temptations of the bakery. “We got enough now. For dinner on Christmas Eve, _and_ Christmas. Hell, maybe even ten nights after.”

Rick hides the grin that’s threatening to streak across his face, because he hasn’t even had to say that all the food they’ve been buying was precisely for that purpose. Marvels at the unspoken understanding between them that they’ll be doing Christmas dinner together, because neither of their families will be in town. He doesn’t know where the hell Merle’s going, or if he’ll even be with the buddies he’s claiming to head out with, but he knows Rachel and her family won’t be back until late Christmas day, taking her kids on some skiing bonding trip that Rick had begged off on, because of his two left feet.

“Think we should do it at your place, or mine?” Rick asks, after he’s managed to tamp down on the grin, making it just a wobbly half-moon on his face. Thinks about how he’d like to use the words in the phrase’s usual context, after he’s brave enough to tell Daryl how he feels.

It’s clear Daryl’s gotten the innuendo behind it anyway, his cheeks flushing the sweetest hue of pink. “Don’t matter,” he says. “Maybe yours, since all the food’s there anyway.”

Rick nods his agreement, thinking it’s oddly poetic in a way. A lot of the movies they’re planning to watch are at Daryl’s, and it’s only a hop, skip and a jump away from Rick’s for the dinner. He’s tucking his hands in his pockets to keep warm, when his fingers brush the leather of his gloves, and genius strikes him, then and there. 

“My gloves,” Rick says, patting his pockets carefully, making sure he doesn’t pat so hard that the bulge of his gloves shows. “I must’ve dropped them somewhere. _Daryl_ ,” he says, looking up, his eyes wide in a show of helplessness. 

“When did you have ‘em last?” says Daryl, brow furrowed, looking all kinds of concerned.

“I-I don’t know, I had them on until I— _oh_ ,” Rick says, a little breathlessly. “The _bakery_. I took them off when we were filling out the form.”

Daryl considers the possibility, before saying, “Maybe they’re still on the counter or somethin’. I’ll make a run back for you, check if they’re—”

“No, I’ve got it,” says Rick, though he’s touched by how quickly Daryl volunteered to go check. “Why don’t you wait here, and _I’ll_ go?”

“If that’s what you want,” shrugs Daryl, though he blinks when Rick’s smile bursts out of its cage for a second. 

Rick manages to catch himself, by clearing his throat. “Won’t be a minute,” he says, readying himself for the run back. His breath clouds from the cold, and Daryl’s too, but for a moment Rick’s tempted to lean in anyway, and press their lips together for an impulsive little _I’ll be back_ kiss. Swallow the lovely cloud of warmth Daryl’s breathing out, as he stands there. 

But then Daryl’s waving him off with a _go on, then_ , so Rick breaks into a jog back to the bakery, letting the grin that’s trying to break free of its confines shine bright.

He bursts back through the door of the bakery, letting in a gust of cold air, and Carol winces a little, but then Rick’s there, rubbing his hands and muttering, “Sorry, sorry, I just—the form, I need to—”

“ _Oh_.” Carol just laughs, sorting through a few papers to find the form for their cake. “The peppermint crunch, I’m guessing?” she says, sliding the form across the counter.

“Yeah,” Rick beams, grabbing the stubby golf pencil. He makes sure there’s a bigger, darker checkmark than the greasy stain Daryl left when he rubbed the original away with his thumb. Rifles clumsily through his pockets for change, his fingers numb from the cold. 

“It’s all right, hon’,” Carol smiles. “It’s on the house, see?” She points at the red PAID that’s already stamped on the sheet, and Rick can’t stop beaming, he can’t _stop_ , and he can’t even remember how many times he says _thank you_ —making sure he buys a little bag of _Carol’s Chocolate Chip_ cookies, because one good turn deserves another—before running all the way back to where Daryl is.

“Well, did you find ‘em?” asks Daryl, his eyes narrowed, suspicious. 

Rick draws the pair of gloves from his pocket like they’re some kind of rare prize and slips them on. “Sure did,” he says. And this time his smile’s for something else. This time, he’s looking forward to Thursday and seeing the surprise and pleasure on Daryl’s face, when he finds out that they got that sprinkling of peppermint crunch, after all. 

Daryl rolls his eyes. “You know, other people are gonna start callin’ you Officer Friendly real soon,” he says. “Seein’ as how you’re smilin’ so damn hard.”

Rick’s about to tell Daryl that he hates Merle’s pet name for him, when he notices the way Daryl’s shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket, hunching into the collar of it, shivering. 

“You’re cold,” Rick says, blinking stupidly.

Daryl glares a _thanks to you, jackass_ at Rick, but shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Rick insists, since by now he’s grown better at telling when Daryl’s just suffering in silence or when he’s _actually_ fine. And now when he thinks back, Rick’s left feeling all kinds of stupid; he’d made Daryl wait in the cold, while he was busy adding to their cake, his excitement crowding out every other rational thought. “Why didn’t you wait inside?” Rick asks, as he unwinds the scarf from his own neck. “There’s a gas station across the street that you—”

“Didn’t want you to think I’d gone and left you here,” Daryl says. “Thought I better stay put. Since you’re shit at trackin’ in snow and all.” 

This time it’s a real grin that graces Daryl’s face, and Rick’s chest fills with such warmth and affection that it feels fit to burst any moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Rick says, as he loops his scarf around Daryl’s neck once, twice. He’s standing close enough to see the redness in Daryl’s nose, and he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or if it’s the warmth of Daryl’s blush shining through, but Rick finds himself thinking that he’d like to kiss the tip of Daryl’s nose, that sweet, rose-red flush. Wants to pull him in by the edges of the scarf, tug him close and kiss him within an inch of his life. 

But then Daryl catches him staring, holding his gaze with those shadow blues of his, curious, and Rick ends up simply tucking the end of the scarf at the back of Daryl’s neck. Lets his hand linger there, his palm warm against the nape of Daryl’s neck, as he leans in and touches their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he breathes again. “I shouldn’t have made you wait.”

And _god_ , Daryl’s leaning into him too, sharing his warmth, his breath, and they’re close enough to kiss, if only Rick will take the leap of faith he needs to make this work. 

Rick pulls away instead, his heart beating far too fast, his hands sweating into his gloves, and he’s only hoping that Daryl won’t notice the beads of sweat that have broken out across his brow. Wills himself to ignore the soft, hurt sound Daryl made when Rick had pulled away, because Daryl couldn’t _possibly_ —couldn’t _mean_ —

“I know what else’ll warm you right up,” says Rick, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. He’s struck the by distinct feeling that he’d had a _chance_ there, and he’d blown it.

“Yeah?” Daryl says, his voice too hoarse. “What’s that?”

“Come on,” says Rick. “I’ll show you.” He peels his right glove off as they walk and gives it to Daryl, who hasn’t got any. “Here. At least it’ll keep _one_ of our hands warm, each.”

Daryl snorts, muttering something about how he _don’t need no princess gloves_ , but he slips it on anyway, and Rick can see, as he leads them to their destination, the beginning of a smile making its way across Daryl’s face again, small but hopeful.

 _Hold his hand_ , Rick instructs himself. _It’s even easier than a kiss_. He glances at their ungloved hands—his right, Daryl’s left. It’s the perfect situation, and Rick couldn’t have set it up any better if he’d tried. _Just…reach for his fingers. Hell, I don’t care if you just touch your pinkies together, just do_ something.

Except the entire way there, Rick frets about his palm being sweaty, or Daryl flinging his hand off, ashamed. And by the time they reach the place he’s wanted to lead them to, there are so many other couples holding hands, perfect, fingers entwined or palm in palm, that anything he could try now would be vastly inferior to what he’s seeing here.

“You took me to the _park_?” says Daryl. He’s not disappointed, but he’s certainly surprised, and he’s only even more so when Rick fishes out some change and herds them over to the truck selling hot chocolate out the back. Buys them one to share, because it’s become something of a custom between them—that when they’re at the park, dependent on the weather, they’ll get the appropriate drink to share. 

“How is it?” Rick asks, as Daryl warms his fingers with the cup, breathing in the liquid and lovely warmth steaming out from inside. 

Daryl takes a small sip and closes his eyes, as if he’s letting the heat from the hot chocolate slide easy through his veins, warming him from the inside out. “Guess you were right, for once,” he admits. 

“For once? You mean for _always_ ,” Rick says, with a false indignation that has Daryl throwing a loose fist in front of his mouth, to hide a too-broad grin. Has Daryl handing him the cup while he turns and chuckles into his hand. It warms something in Rick to see Daryl enjoying himself again, but hurts something in him too; the idea that Daryl thinks he’s got to hide his happiness. Can’t let the world see, in case it tries to _take_ it from him, by force.

“All right, Laffy Taffy,” says Rick, huffing. Finds the name strangely fitting, a term he’d learned from one of Aurora’s animated movies—living taffy that was attracted to whatever made them laugh. Wonders if there’s truth to that description after all. “You keep goin’ like that, I’ll be finishin’ this before you get another sip.” He makes sure to take an extra large gulp of the drink, but when Daryl doesn’t stop him, Rick starts becoming vaguely aware that Daryl’s simply watching him drink. Tracking the motion of Rick’s Adam’s apple with his eyes as Rick swallows, the blue of them nearly annexed by black.

Daryl catches himself staring, two smaller sips of hot chocolate in, and as if they’re still carrying on the same conversation, manages a quick, “Have what you want.” He nods toward the cup that Rick’s slowed down on draining, because this had been to _share_. “I’ll take the rest.”

“I’ve had enough now,” Rick says, holding out the cup. Rolls his shoulders to hide the electric shiver that passes through his body when Daryl’s fingers brush along his.

Having tugged loose Rick’s scarf from around his throat, Daryl finishes off the rest of the cup with small, leisurely sips. And it’s now, during this short moment of reprieve, that Rick lets himself study the same landscape of Daryl’s body. The size and shape of Daryl’s Adam’s apple. The way it moves when he drinks. The way it’s centred within the muscles of his neck, perfect. Finds himself tempted to brush fingers against the lovely curve of it, and feel its movement as he swallows, before letting his fingers dip into the hollow of Daryl’s throat. To just rest there, touching, warming, _feeling_.

There’s a popping noise as Daryl flicks the cup’s lid off and dredges up the remainder with his finger, tracing the inside rim of the cup until he’s gathered a thick froth of hot chocolate on his index finger. Licks it off slowly, like he’s savouring it, the motion completely and utterly sensual. 

Rick can’t help but wonder what it’d be like if he was that finger. Or if Daryl’s mouth could be on _his_ fingers instead. But then Daryl’s smacking his lips as he finishes off what’s left of the hot chocolate, and the moment’s gone—at least, Rick thinks it is, until Daryl looks up and catches his eye. 

On the tip of his nose, right where that sweet, rose-red blush was before, is a tiny smudge of cocoa, one that Rick finds all kinds of endearing. He’s caught between wanting to kiss it away, or more boldly, lick it off, and either action requires only the tiniest effort on his part. 

Along with a gargantuan amount of courage.

There are so many things Rick wants to do, _needs_ to, but isn’t sure he has the right to. Can’t bring himself to just take the leap to find out. But he could, he _should_ , and—

“You’ve got somethin’ here,” Rick blurts out, before his nerve deserts him completely. He’s about to point to it, before remembering that opportunities have been falling in his lap all day, and he only needs reach out and take one, to make it count. Draws in a small breath of courage, before reaching out and cupping Daryl’s cheek in his palm, a motion more intimate than anything they’ve done so far. Wicks away the offending smudge with his thumb. 

He hears the tiny hitch in Daryl’s breath, and even though Rick had been thinking _yes, good, going well_ , it’s enough of an interruption to make his hand dart away, like an air raid siren’s gone off in his head and everyone is panicking.

No. No, only Rick was panicking here.

“There’s somethin’ we oughta try,” says Daryl, too loudly into the silence that follows, and Rick thanks his lucky stars that Daryl’s not going to call attention to it, whatever that little aborted motion was. “Before we lose the light.”

“Yeah?” says Rick, glad to play along, like nothing just happened. Like he hadn’t been cradling his best friend’s cheek in his hand, like he was treasured and dear. “What’re you thinkin’?” And as Daryl nudges him toward the shallow pond nearby, frozen over now that it’s winter, Rick digs his heels in, hard. “ _No_. No, no, no. Two left feet, remember?”

Around them, couples and children and even teenaged girls aspiring to be the next big star of figure-skating stop and stare. Like they’ve never seen anyone treat a natural rink of ice like a visit to the doctor’s. 

“Best time of the year for it,” Daryl says, tugging him a little closer. There’s a wooden fence around the pond that acts as an enclosure for ducks during the summer, but even now, Rick can see the smallest of children clinging to it like a lifeline as they shuffle along the ice. “Look, even kids a tenth your age are doin’ it.”

“A tenth my—” Rick sputters, and that is _it_. _Now_ he has something to prove, and he makes an ill-advised hop over the low-leaning fence, arms pinwheeling at his side as he tries to regain his balance and fails. Miserably. Crawls back out to where the grass has frozen over, clinging to the fence all the while, and sits down. “I’ll just watch you,” he decides. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Daryl snorts and hauls him up by an arm. “I’ll steady you,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

And even if Rick figures his next while will be spent floundering on the ice, Daryl actually shows him how to stand properly, on the slippery surface. How to sweep his feet along, like his boots are actually skates, because it’s the best they’ve got, since this isn’t an officially-sanctioned ice rink with actual skate rentals. And when Rick’s finally learned how to stand by himself, to move his feet without clutching the wooden fence for dear life—baby can sit up by _himself_ now, Rick thinks—Daryl kicks off, gliding a fair distance away, and turns back toward Rick. 

“All right,” Daryl calls, with a wave of his hand. “Skate over to me now.”

“ _What_ ,” says Rick. He’s only just gotten the hang of not falling on his ass like an idiot, and Daryl’s left him here, he’s too far, and— “Daryl,” he calls. “ _Daryl_.” He thinks a cry of _help_ is coming down the line soon too, but won’t give Daryl the satisfaction of that just yet.

Rick flounders a little more, trying to find his feet again, his boots grinding back and forth like they’re trying trying to claw through the ice beneath him, when suddenly, people around him pause, like they’re holding a collective breath. Watching as Daryl skates over, graceful, each swivel of his feet perfect, measured, as he glides toward Rick, like a mystical silver stag in the woods. 

_Christ_ , Rick thinks. _Did I just compare Daryl to a mystical stag?_

“I’ve got you,” says Daryl, his voice low, calming, as he winds an arm beneath Rick’s. Helps prop him up, a beam of support and warmth, and everything Rick wants right now. Rick can’t help but cling a little, because he’s completely out of his element here. 

“Never told me you were a professional ice skater,” Rick says, teasing.

Daryl snorts. “Never was. Just practiced on the pond behind the house, when it was freezin’ out. Easier when you’re little, I guess. Now c’mon,” he says. He straightens up so he can take Rick’s ungloved hand in his. “Keep up.”

Rick stumbles his way after Daryl, feet catching and scraping along ice, and people around them laugh, but they stop when Rick finds his feet halfway through—though not without needing Daryl’s other hand too, from time to time.

“See?” says Daryl eventually. “You’re a natural at it.”

Rick hums, but it’s not in agreement; he’s only enjoying the warmth of Daryl’s hands around his. The wind through his hair as they glide along the ice together. Imagining Daryl as a child, and wondering if he’d felt this way too, in a rare moment of joy, as he spiralled and looped his way across a pond so many years ago, far from the burdensome cares of his home.

“You can do this, Rick,” Daryl says, encouraging. “You can do this.” And before Rick can ask what it is Daryl thinks he can do, Daryl _lets go_ , and sends him careening into the wilderness, rudderless and lost and alone. 

Except he’s _not_ rudderless, and he’s definitely not alone, as Daryl’s there every step of the way, watching as Rick manages a sort of wobbly glide by himself. 

“Look at you,” Daryl breathes softly, in wonder, voice likely a touch louder than he intends. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Rick blinks because he doesn’t think Daryl meant for him to hear that. And it’s too late when he realizes he’s going to slam straight into the tree overlooking the pond—he hadn’t been paying attention, just blinking and thinking _this is it, this is the moment_ —but Daryl shouts something at him, and reaches out to yank on Rick’s arm, hard. Before he knows it, he’s landed on top of Daryl in an awkward heap of limbs and shoes, but layers of soft clothing and _Daryl_ , instead of a tree. 

“You all right?” Daryl asks, his brow furrowed, like the position they’re in doesn’t bother him at all. 

His hand’s resting lightly on Rick’s back, fingers stroking along his spine, gentle, like they’re searching for injuries that don’t have to bleed to hurt. And the warmth from Daryl’s breath warms Rick’s face, because his mouth, _god_ his mouth is _right there_ , and Rick could just close the distance between them like it was nothing at all.

“Yeah,” Rick answers, swallowing hard, feeling the rapid hammer of his heart in his chest. _This could be the moment_ , he decides, _if I make it so_. 

He savours their closeness for long moments, before, with the deepest regret, drawing away slowly. Because he can’t bear the thought of their first kiss being in such a public place, surrounded by so many people, when it should be something secret and safe and just between them.

So Rick braces his hands awkwardly on Daryl’s jacket to shift his weight onto his knees. Tugs at his coat and pants until he can get his feet out from under him, before offering Daryl a hand to help him up. “I’m all right,” says Rick. “Though I should be askin’ _you_ that, since you broke my fall.” Rick grins, hoping it’s disarming enough that Daryl won’t notice the profuse blush he’s sure is working its way across his face right now. 

Daryl gives him something that probably passes for a smile. “I’m fine,” he says. “Think we oughta call it a day, though. Losin’ the light pretty soon.” 

But Rick doesn’t want it to end, because they hardly ever get a whole _day_ off together, not without pulling a few strings, or in Daryl’s case, pulling a few no-shows at Merle’s shop.

“We won’t lose the light,” Rick promises. “Come on.” He tugs Daryl with him by the hand. “There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.” It’s a little something that the police station, the county’s firefighters, and the local hospital had put together for the children’s charity this year, and Rick’s pretty sure Daryl’s never seen anything like it. 

In a way, he’s catching Daryl up on the childhood he’d never gotten to enjoy, because Rick knows Merle couldn’t have done much for Daryl between stints in juvie. And the mere mention of Daryl’s father has Rick up in arms, because if Will Dixon were alive, Rick might’ve marched over there and struck him dead a second time, for daring to do to Daryl even half the things he’d done.

Daryl rolls his eyes now, because they’re walking in nearly total darkness after leaving the safety of the park’s jerry-rigged floodlights, but Rick just keeps on grinning and tugging him along, with gentle touches to Daryl’s fingers. His coat. The ends of Rick’s scarf around his neck. 

_You’ll like it, I promise_ , beams Rick, all the brightness of his heart that he can’t contain spilling into rosy cheeks and a smile that’s a mile wide. He’s going to _do_ this, he _is_. Enough with the chances wasted, aborted—he’ll take Daryl to the perfect place for an opportunity of his _own_ making.

 _You’ll like it_ , Rick thinks, his fingers curling tighter around Daryl’s, determined, even if the thought’s more of a hope than a surety now. _And when we’re there, I hope you’ll like what I’ve got to say, too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rick and Daryl’s Christmas cake is inspired by the cakes [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/7-11%20xmas%20cake.jpg~original) and [here](http://s7.photobucket.com/user/slamduncan21/media/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/cake%201.jpg.html?sort=3&o=1).  
> \- The concept of Laffy Taffy is from Wreck-It Ralph. They laugh when they find something hilarious. And they’re attracted to whatever makes them laugh! :3  
> \- Daryl’s graceful movement on the ice is inspired by that of Harry Potter’s Patronus charm—a silver stag.


	11. From Left Field

~

It’s another block, then another, before they even see a hint of the display Rick’s wanted to show Daryl, but as they near it, a soft, golden glow can be seen, warping around the edges of buildings that have no right to hide its light.

Daryl looks toward Rick, eyebrow arched, but Rick just squeezes his hand and shakes his head. _You’ll have to wait_.

And the wait’s worth it too, because Rick’s heart nearly leaps from his chest with fondness and affection, when they round the corner and Daryl stops in his tracks, mouth dropping into a stunned _o_ as he takes in the view of gold-lit stars on high towers. Silver arches strung along bridges. Full-scale gingerbread houses, with patterns of gumdrops and candy swirls, all crafted from a hundred tiny bulbs.

He loves the way Daryl swallows hard, carefully touching with reverent fingers when he spots silver lights wrapped around bushes, trimmed artfully into the form of a stag, a rabbit, a seal. The way his eyes widen when they arrive at a grove of trees that have been twined from their bases to their canopies with colors of red and silver and green. The hilltop strung with lines of miniature blue lights, twinkling, each part of a mosaic that comes together to form a cascading waterfall. 

_Well?_ Rick asks with an arch of his brow, and the goofiest grin he’s grinned in years. _Like it?_

Daryl manages a grudging nod, like he’s not sure how to express all his childish wonder, how to channel it, but the look in his eyes says more than enough. 

They spend the next while wandering through the displays, the myriad kaleidoscopic lights throwing flecks of red and green and blue on the snow underfoot, and the tinkling instrumentals of _I’m Dreaming of A White Christmas_ rounding out the holiday ambience overhead. 

They’re less than half an hour into their wandering of the light displays, when Rick decides it’s time. Starts leading Daryl through a tunnel, one that’s bright with twinkling silver, flashing gold and an adorable arch of pulsing pink hearts, something that’s probably meant to be the _Lover’s Lane_ of the display. Turns to Daryl, hoping that everything he’s feeling is reflected in Daryl’s eyes, heart leaping in his chest when it seems like it _is_.

“Daryl, listen,” Rick tries. Winds cool fingers around Daryl’s, their knuckles and fingertips reddened from the cold, heartened when Daryl doesn’t pull away. Just waits with bated breath, his attention focused entirely on Rick. “There’s…there’s somethin’ I wanna tell you. And that’s the fact that…”

This day was perfect, Rick thinks, like most of his days with Daryl have been, whether they’re stalking prey through the woods, or curled up against each other munching stale pretzels and watching reruns of old classics. And he’s trying to find the courage to say something to Daryl, about how good they are together, about how Daryl puts the lightness in his step and the brightness in his heart, trying to find the right, the _perfect_ words for it, when _it_ happens—and blows his plans completely out of the water.

“Rick!” A shout echoes from behind them, and as the sound travels closer, it resolves into two voices, not one. 

Rick sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers slipping away from Daryl’s; he’d seen Shane on occasion at the station, and run into him at a police charity event once, but it’s been an age since he’s run into Shane and Lori _together_. And never with Daryl at his side. 

Shane and Lori are holding hands with all their fingers entwined and giggling, their cheeks flushed from the cold, and Rick feels something clench tight in the pit of his stomach. They’re fawning over each other like they haven’t a care in the world, and being so expressive with their affection that it’s almost over the top. Rick thinks he’d take Daryl’s smiles and quick, shy touches any day, over this. 

Daryl, on the ice, flawless and perfect, the very picture of grace. 

Daryl, beautiful in the glow of the lights, his smile a mile wide as he looked upon everything before them with the wonder of a child. 

Daryl—

“Rick,” Shane’s saying now, dragging him back to the moment. “We saw you from over by the animal display and waved, but I guess you didn’t see us. Anyway, good to see you again, man. How’ve you been?” He claps Rick on the back, their old gesture of camaraderie. Jerks a nod at Daryl. “Who’s this?”

Lori nods too. “Is this your…?” she tries, before trailing off. It’s clear that she’s surprised, as much as she tries to hide it, and Rick finds himself annoyed by the way she asks, the question itself loaded—like she’s waiting to be proven wrong, and Daryl couldn’t possibly _be_ someone to him. As if she’d assumed Rick wouldn’t ever move on from her. 

At least it’s not as bad as the _Is this your brother_ he sometimes gets when they’re out at the deli or the bakery trying to buy food.

“This is Daryl,” Rick says simply, because he’s not sure about saying _boyfriend_ , or _partner_. Not yet. Not until he knows how Daryl feels—if he even feels the same way.

“Nice to meet you, Daryl,” Lori says, and she’s polite enough, even if she doesn’t offer to shake hands. Even if Shane frowns and mouths at Rick, _Is that one of the Dixons?_

Rick wants to roll his eyes at that, because what does it matter that Daryl _is_? It doesn’t make him any less selfless, and kind, and all the things that no one notices about Daryl at first glance. “What’re you two doin’ here?” Rick asks instead, hoping to deflect the conversation from themselves. 

“We’re just taking some time to relax,” says Lori. “Been busy shopping for baby supplies and a crib, since we’re expecting now.” And Rick can see the round swell of her belly through her coat now, since she’s pointed it out. Feels a tiny pang of jealousy lance through his heart—that is, until Daryl presses in close, and squeezes his hand once, reassuring. 

It warms Rick up from the inside, that motion alone. Makes him stop wishing the ground would swallow him where stood. Makes him feel less like a _fool_ , confessing to a woman who’d belonged to someone else, even if that feels like a lifetime ago now.

“Yeah, what about you guys?” Shane asks, nodding at Daryl. Rick twitches a shadow of a smile at Shane, appreciating the fact that he’s trying to include Daryl in the conversation.

“Just been around,” Daryl shrugs. “Window shoppin’. Tryin’ to get Rick to skate.” And while Rick gets why Daryl doesn’t want to share that they’ve been shopping together, looking at and ordering cakes together, something about hiding what they’ve been doing just doesn’t sit right with Rick. 

“Skating?” Shane laughs, even as he narrows his eyes, somehow _knowing_ , and Rick blushes at the memory of Daryl’s hands around his, hot from the mug of hot cocoa they’d been sharing; Daryl, gently leading him around the ice, like it was no big deal, like Rick wasn’t a burden, but someone with whom he could share in a magical ice adventure. “Did you share a hot chocolate too?” Shane teases. “Hold hands in the park?” He jerks a nod at their sharing of Rick’s gloves, one each, before punching Rick in the shoulder, playful. “Sounds like a pretty hot date to me.”

“We’re not—” Rick says, before remembering that he doesn’t need to explain what he and Daryl are to each other. Not to Shane. Not to Lori. That the only thing that matters is what Daryl thinks.

Except Rick’s denial must hurt Daryl more than it has any right to, more than any of Shane’s tasteless jokes, because Daryl’s hand shrinks back from Rick’s and he steps away, like it’s wrong, backtracking out of there in a hurry. And Rick has to fight himself to keep from reaching out and taking Daryl’s hand again. Figures it’s time to make their exit, so he can make things right with Daryl. 

“Listen, there’s a party we gotta get to,” he says, making his most apologetic face, though he doesn’t feel bad at all, because god knows how often Shane and Lori pulled this on Rick and the others, when they wanted to make out or get some alone time. “We’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” says Shane, clapping a hand to Rick’s back absently, because Lori’s already making excited _come here_ motions and pointing at her stomach. Probably to say _the baby’s kicking, come feel_. 

Rick wants to roll his eyes at the sight of it, hoping he won’t become someone who forgets his friends just because he’s found some kind of wedded bliss. Then Daryl’s speaking, which commands all of Rick’s attention at once, because that’s what he does—takes up all the space and attention around Rick when he speaks and acts. Because Daryl only says what he means and does the things that need doing, every action of his nothing but genuine, every word of his worth listening to.

He’s not even sure how or when he became so attuned to Daryl in this way, but Rick doesn’t mind it in the least.

“That’s them, ain’t it,” says Daryl, his voice oddly quiet, as they reach the end of the Lovers’ Lane, leaving them in an odd patch of darkness before the next light display begins. “And she’s the one that got away.”

Rick knows he hadn’t said a damn thing before Shane and Lori made their way over, so Daryl must’ve read it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way Rick’s smile faltered just the tiniest bit. And he knows just from that, how attuned Daryl’s become to him too.

“Yeah,” says Rick, with a sigh. “That’s them, all right.” But he’s already let that go, thinking instead about how he’s going to get Daryl to let Rick’s hand near his again. Thinking up all manner of excuses. _Got a gift for you—my hand_. Or, _you look pretty cold, I got some other gloves here somewhere—nope, just my hands_. 

He’s got to fix what he’s just messed up, because Daryl is…Daryl is _hurting_. Rick knows that much.

“Oh,” says Daryl. He shoves his hands in his pockets and Rick feels something crumple in his chest in disappointment. “Guess she’s quite a looker. Can see why you loved her.”

“I didn’t…” Rick’s shaking his head already, not sure why he feels the need to clarify how he felt to Daryl, just knowing that he needs to correct that wrong impression right _now_. “I didn’t love her,” he says. “Not the way I—” 

He stops, because that’s too close to what he’s been thinking all this time, too much he can’t reveal now because the moment’s gone.

 _She was beautiful and bright, and maybe I wanted her like the moon pines after the unreachable sun. But now I’ve found a star in the night that burns brighter and hotter and leaves a light lasting far longer in my heart than hers ever did_.

But how does he put this into words? How does he say all this without sounding like an utter _fool_? _Speak_ , Rick demands of himself. _Speak_. 

“Maybe I loved what they had,” Rick finishes lamely. “I think that’s what it was, in the end.” He’s decided his first words of love to Daryl shouldn’t follow a comparison to Rick’s loves from the past, because maybe he hadn’t meant to earlier, but he’s _done_ with hurting Daryl for today.

Daryl nods, like that’s the end of that. They don’t say another word about it on the way back to Daryl’s place, the location they’ve chosen for tonight’s movie because it’s closer to the park.

Rick toes off his boots in the doorway after Daryl, and before long, they’re back to what they’re used to again, weaving around each other in the tiny kitchen, Daryl taking out pots and saucepans while Rick pulls the ingredients they’ll need for tonight’s movie refreshments out. It hasn’t escaped Rick’s notice that they do this with the same practiced ease that they’ve gained during hunting, or fishing, or anything else they do; they just seem to move easily and in tune with each other, and that’s something Rick thinks they couldn’t force if they tried. 

Daryl spends a moment simmering milk while Rick melts chocolate over a saucepan, because they’ve both had enough of packet hot chocolate mixed with water. They’d been four nights into their Christmas movies marathon before Daryl challenged him to the making of _real_ hot chocolate, an occasion Rick thinks he’s risen to pretty well, but only by working together with Daryl. And Rick won’t ever admit it, but more than once he’s watched Daryl, humming _Lady_ by Kenny Rogers under his breath as he stirs the milk, and thought of wrapping his arms around Daryl’s waist. Of brushing a kiss to the column of his neck, and another behind his ear, before breathing in the scent of his hair as Rick turns the lyrics of that song around and croons _you’re my knight in shining armour, and I love you_.

But then the chocolate and milk are ready to be mixed together, and Rick can’t find it in himself to be brave just this once, so they take turns mixing and pouring the steaming goodness into two tall mugs instead, and Rick picks them up, ready to bring them out to the couch. 

It’s then that Daryl flicks his wrist out at Rick, a tiny command to _stop_ , before reaching over to him and dropping a handful of mini marshmallows into Rick’s cup. Huffs and grins a silent _you forgot_ into Rick’s shoulder. Because it’s hot chocolate just the way Rick likes, the marshmallows melting and forming a gooey white layer of sweetness. 

Rick just laughs, wishing he could kiss the smirk off Daryl’s face, but before he can, Daryl’s turned away, dragging a sack of supermarket cheese popcorn out of the cupboard. There’s making everything from scratch and then there’s _making everything from scratch_ , and nobody’s got time for that, so they make their way out to the couch, homemade hot chocolate and store-bought snacks in tow.

 _This one?_ Rick raises a brow at the DVD Daryl owns, when they’ve set all the snacks down. _Or this one?_ He holds up the remastered BluRay in his other hand. 

Daryl jerks a nod at the DVD with a shrug that says _Might as well go old school_ , and Rick pops the disc for _A Christmas Story_ into the DVD player, before settling into the couch. Drops his head on Daryl’s lap without thinking, because they’ve become so accustomed to it, and lets the bowl of popcorn rest on his stomach, where they both pick at it like birdseed.

Except three-quarters of the way through the movie, Daryl reaches down blindly for the popcorn, and instead of getting the popcorn, his fingers land in Rick’s hair. 

Maybe it’s the fact that Rick looks asleep, his eyes mostly closed, just listening to the movie’s dialogue and the steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing, that lends Daryl a certain boldness, but he starts stroking Rick’s hair, his fingers surprisingly soothing. Just weaves them through Rick’s hair like a fine comb, letting them tangle in thick curls, gentle, like Rick is something precious and rare. 

And Rick, partly asleep from the movie, partly from being so warm and comfortable where he’s sprawled out along Daryl, rolls into his touch and honest-to-god _purrs_.

Daryl’s hand jumps away instantly, like he’s been burned, the soft, yearning look in his eyes replaced with horror at once. Rick wants to say _wait_ , but Daryl’s already sprinting off the couch, mumbling, “I gotta take a piss” before Rick can reach out for him and pull him back.

The movie’s rolling the end credits by the time Daryl returns. And Rick, who’s completely awake now, wants to ask _what was that all about_. 

But before he’s opened his mouth, Daryl feigns a yawn—Rick can tell, damn it, he’s catalogued most of Daryl’s grunts and snorts and yawns by now—and says, “Merle just called. Needs me to open the shop early tomorrow. Sorry,” he adds, sheepish.

Rick knows he’s lying, and he wants to say, _Yeah? Did Merle just call to say your refrigerator’s runnin’ and that you better go catch it too?_ But he holds his tongue and nods, shrugging his coat on without a word, because he knows if he corners Daryl about this, they’ll argue, and he can’t take an argument tonight. The fact that Daryl doesn’t ask Rick to stay over stings a little too, but it’s clear Daryl needs his space. To mull over whatever it is that’s spooked him so thoroughly.

It doesn’t keep Rick from eyeing the couch and wishing he could be lying in Daryl’s lap again, warm, and he has to force himself to look away from the couch in the end. Push away thoughts of how they’d gone from comfortable domesticity to _this_ , in no time at all. “We still on for Thursday?” Rick asks instead. 

They’re supposed to help Rachel pick up some of her holiday shopping, including her special-order gifts for Lucas and Aurora, and pick up the cake they ordered. 

_Our_ cake, Rick thinks, a tiny flicker of warmth glowing bright in his chest. It’s quickly doused by the fear that Daryl’s going to say he’s busy, or out at the shop. 

“Yeah,” Daryl says, and Rick can see the apple of his throat move, as he swallows hard. As if just saying this takes an immense effort. “We’re still on.” But he doesn’t meet Rick’s eyes as he speaks.

Rick remembers that, even as he heads out to his car and drives away. It’s one of the few times Daryl hasn’t been able to meet his eyes. 

One of the few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘Lover’s Lane’ in this fic is similar to the one found here. The park they visit was inspired by this one [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/xmas%20lights.jpg~original).
> 
>  **OST:**  
>  \- At the Light Displays: [ Happyville (White Christmas)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzzDrEuFpnE%0A)  
> \- What Could Be: [ Lady – Kenny Rogers ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jT4_ohTS3Os)
> 
> **P.S.** I don't want to give too much away, but the title of the next chapter is... _The Turn of the Tide_. ^3^ ~ ♫ Thank you all for reading so far! And a Happy Thanksgiving to everyone who's celebrating it today! :D


	12. The Turn of the Tide

~

Rick stops by Merle’s repair shop the day after, and the day after that, to see if there’s a chance to catch Daryl and find out what’s wrong, because Daryl hasn’t returned any of his calls. But Daryl’s either not there, or Merle shoos Rick away, mostly by brandishing a tire iron in his face and grinding out a _What’d you do to my baby brother, huh? Why’s he actin’ like someone just died?_

And even if he hears a tired _Merle, stop_ , Daryl doesn’t come out to meet him, just calls out a _Rick, we’re busy_ and leaves it at that. 

So when Daryl’s waiting on the front steps Thursday afternoon, with Rick’s scarf bundled around his neck like he’s some kind of ruffian outlaw, Rick’s so happy that he pulls Daryl into a hug. It’s tight and warm, an _I missed you_ spoken with arms and hands as he buries his face in Daryl’s neck. Breathes in the smell of him that clings to Rick’s scarf, the sweet musk that Rick’s gone too long without.

“Thought Merle might need a hand in the shop today,” Daryl tries, his voice too small. He lets his arms close cautiously around Rick’s shoulders. “But, uh. We’re good for today, I guess.”

“Good.” Rick beams at him, as he leads Daryl to the Jeep. “ _Good_.” He’s got the best day planned for them ever, and he’ll be damned if he lets Merle or his own shaky courage get in the way.

Their first stop is the toy store, because Rick figures it’ll be a nightmare come evening, especially since it’s Christmas Eve. Rachel’s asked them to pick up the gifts she’d ordered for her kids ahead of time, and Rick’s decided that the sooner it’s done, the better. 

What he doesn’t expect is how much _fun_ Daryl seems to have there. They start out only browsing, while waiting for the gift-wrap service, but before long they’re knee deep in the Lego pit, building things with the best of the kids, like gliders and small cars with blocky wheels. And even if they get a few odd looks, most of the parents find them harmless enough to just shrug and walk away. 

“Never had things like this, when I was a kid,” Daryl admits, his cheeks flushed, when Rick leans over to admire the Lego maze that Daryl’s built.

“We could get some,” offers Rick, grinning, as he sends an unwitting Lego man straight into a dead end of Daryl’s design, where there’s a dragon perched, waiting. “Spread them out in the living room and go to town.” Rick knows he’s jumping ahead of himself, already imagining a Lego night with Daryl, where they’d build all kinds of things—heck, maybe even start on one of those thousand-block projects he’d seen on the Internet. But Daryl’s enthusiasm is catching, and Rick’s only too happy to let himself be swept up in the maelstrom that’s Daryl’s wonder and delight at so simple an activity.

Except something about that makes Daryl’s smile fade a little at the corners, leaving Rick wondering what he’d said wrong. Was it the _we_? Had he come on too strong?

Before he’s got a chance to ask Daryl just what he’s said that’s bothering him, Daryl’s turned to the action figures, fingers looped around the waist of an Iron Man, making it soar through the air. So Rick plays along, and grabs the nearest thing at hand, which happens to be a Barbie that looks like some kind of fashion designer. 

They end up making up a silly story where Iron Man saves Barbie from some laser-eyebeam ponies—roping a few rainbow-coloured pony dolls into their cast of characters—but halfway through the rescue, Barbie ends up dying anyway, because her waist is so tiny her spine snaps when Iron Man tries to fly her away.

Both of them get a lot of dirty looks from nearby parents for _that_ , which is when Rick knows it’s time to usher Daryl away from there into the book section.

The toy shop’s starting to get busier by the time they’ve browsed through the whole collection of picture and movie tie-in books, so they make their way back to the New Arrivals counter, to pick up the gifts that Rachel’s pre-ordered, Rick making sure he’s got the receipt slips that she left him. There’s a sleek, black bike with training wheels for Lucas, that’ll go with the gloves Daryl got him, and a dollhouse for Aurora, that’ll go with the dolls Rick and Daryl bought for her, both gifts wrapped in the time they took to explore the store. 

It’s a fight in itself to get to Rick’s car in the parking lot, but they manage it in the end, tossing the gifts into the trunk before settling into heated car seats for a breather, a moment to collect themselves. 

“That was,” Daryl says, grinning, even as he huffs out an exhausted breath. “That was…”

“Good?” Rick suggests after a moment, hopeful. Their stay at the toyshop had been unexpected, but it’s breathtaking to see Daryl like this, his eyes gleaming with some long-forgotten spark, and his smile a mile wide. 

“Yeah,” says Daryl finally. “That was good. All of it.” It hasn’t escaped Rick’s notice that they’d sidestepped the word _fun_ , but as long as Daryl equates it to _good_ , that’ll do in Rick’s books.

There’s still enough time left over before their cake’s ready—he’d gotten a call from someone named Sophia with an Estimated Time to Completion—so Rick decides to move onto the next thing on his agenda. And that’s taking Daryl for a leisurely winter walk around the valley where the lights had been strung the other night, because their day display is nearly as pretty as their night’s.

It bothers him that Daryl’s smile today doesn’t seem to last, and Rick can’t figure out why that is, but he makes every effort to try and make Daryl laugh. To do all the things he knows Daryl likes, and bring Daryl back from whatever distant place he’s wandered off to in his mind.

So when they’ve made it to the light display, Rick makes sure he picks up a hot apple cider for Daryl, to keep him warm. Comes up with an excuse to readjust his scarf around Daryl’s neck again— _yes, that end has_ indeed _come loose, let me get that for you_ —all the while thinking of how it might be if Rick could find one of those two-person scarves. The kind that’d be long enough to wrap around them both, cozy and warm. Maybe Rachel could knit one for them, like she’d knit those god-awful Christmas sweaters for Rick, year after year, her way of carrying on their mother’s legacy. 

He even makes the effort to reach out and take Daryl’s hand when he wants to show him something. Points at whatever’s caught his interest with his free hand, even if the thought of it makes his stomach do an anxious flop, because Rick can’t forget the look on Daryl’s face when he’d pulled away the other night, of hurt and unhappiness that made Rick’s heart ache. When Rick had thoughtlessly said _we’re not_ , and nothing of the words he’d _wanted_ to say.

 _Is this all right?_ Rick asks with raised eyebrows, when they’ve reached the hilltop, where metal wiring’s been wrung into the shape of a rabbit, ready for the white twinkle lights twined around it to be lit for the night. Waits for the other shoe to drop, for Daryl to tear Rick’s scarf from his neck and say _enough’s enough_ and yank his hand out of Rick’s grip. So that things can come to a head, somehow. 

But all Daryl does is give him a watery half-smile. Lets Rick guide him this way and that, oddly quiet, even for _Daryl_.

He’s even strangely listless when Rick takes him to the theatre for the Retro Feature, and the movie turns out to be _On Golden Pond_ , which Rick had thanked his lucky stars for, because it’s a movie he knows Daryl _loves_.

If Rick didn’t know any better, he’d say it was almost as if Daryl was _trying_ not to enjoy himself. 

It’s dark out by the time they wander over to the bakery to pick up their Christmas cake, and even though Daryl’s dragging his feet, Rick’s sure the sight of their cake will put the spring back into his step. And if _that_ doesn’t work, Rick knows he’s got to nip this in the bud, and talk to Daryl about what exactly is going on.

They’ve just left the shop, leaving behind the aroma of cinnamon spice loaves and cream cheese tarts and stepped into the cool night air, when Rick opens the bag and glances into the clear top of the box. Just to take a quick peek at their cake. 

“Look, Daryl!” he says. It’s in the shape of a heart, just like Rick had wanted but was too embarrassed to request, and there’s a miniature sign propped in the center, saying _Merry Christmas_. Just beneath it, scrawled in tiny, looping letters, is _I wish you happiness_ , in what’s probably Carol’s hand, the lady who’d taken their order for the cake. 

“Rick,” Daryl says, quiet. 

“You’ll never believe what they added to our cake!” Rick continues, and he’s just about to point out that they’d gotten a light dusting of peppermint crunch after all, a surprise to bring the pleasure back into Daryl’s eyes, when Daryl closes those eyes and lets out a shaky breath.

“ _Rick_ ,” he says again. Like he’s steeling himself to say difficult. Something Rick won’t like.

“Yeah,” Rick says, wondering what it is Daryl wants to say. The thing that Rick’s been trying to tell him all month—maybe all _year_ —can wait. “What is it?”

Daryl just sucks in another breath, slow, deep, before letting it all out at once. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” he says. “Spend so much time together.”

The breezy grin drops off Rick’s face in an instant. “Wait, what?” Rick asks, in disbelief. “Where’s this comin’ from?” He’s thinking some useless litany of _but we made plans together_ and _tonight we’re makin’ dinner together_ , but Daryl’s already one step ahead of him. 

“You can keep the stuff we got,” Daryl says. “I ain’t hurtin’ for food. And you make sure—” His voice wavers just the slightest bit, but he swallows hard and carries on. “You make sure Lucas and Aury get their presents. ‘Cause I ain’t takin’ those back. But _this_?” Daryl gestures between them with a wave of his hand.

“This…?” Rick echoes, uselessly. 

“This _thing_ ,” Daryl starts, before swallowing again, the sound audible even over the voices of distant carollers. “I can’t do this no more.”

“Can’t do what?” Rick says. He reaches out to take Daryl by the shoulders, to make contact somehow, because Daryl’s feeling too distant all of a sudden. Too far for Rick’s liking. But Daryl takes a half-step back, just enough to keep him out of Rick’s reach, like he doesn’t want to be touched. 

Like he doesn’t want to be touched by _Rick_. 

“Daryl,” Rick tries again, slowly this time. Careful. “What is it that’s been botherin’ you? All day, you’ve been—”

Daryl lets out a shaky laugh, incredulous and hurt, like he can’t believe Rick hasn’t guessed what it is yet. Purses his lips together in a thin, hard line, before the rest of his expression follows suit, becoming carefully neutral. 

“Ain’t nothin’ _botherin’_ me,” says Daryl, the slightest edge to his voice. He shrugs, trying too hard to make the motion look casual. “Just ain’t got time to run ‘round with you no more.”

“That’s never been a problem before,” Rick says, brow furrowing, because Daryl’s put aside weekends for them now, and more than once, ditched half a day’s work on Merle—or at least, Rick suspects he has—when Rick tells him he’s got a rare day off. So Daryl suddenly becoming this unavailable doesn’t make _sense_. 

“It’s startin’ to get busy at the shop,” Daryl says, toeing at something on the ground, but Rick’s already shaking his head.

“We’ll work around that,” Rick says firmly. “We’ve done it before.” Shoots down every one of Daryl’s poor excuses, because he can’t fathom not seeing Daryl for any stretch of time, can’t imagine not seeing him _ever again_. “God, _I’ll_ come in, give you guys a hand with—”

“ _No_ ,” Daryl snaps finally. Rick can tell his temper’s fraying at the edges, by the way he rakes fingers through his hair, sprigs of it sticking out straw-straight. The way he’s pacing, on a four-step patch of ground, a thing Daryl only does when he’s particularly agitated. “That ain’t what I— _no_. You know what? Your buddy, Shane? Maybe he had the right idea about us after all.”

Rick just throws his hands up, because when has Shane ever been right about anything involving Daryl? He can’t remember a time when Shane’s actively said anything about him, besides his puzzled _Is that a Dixon_ , so Daryl’s not making any sense.

“What are you even talkin’ about?” Rick says, and Daryl mumbles something that sounds like _your name rhymes with_ brick, _‘cause you’re fuckin’ dumb as one_ , before reaching out to cup Rick’s cheeks in his palms, the motion oddly gentle, and kisses him. 

No fireworks explode and no choir belts out a hymn of praise; it’s just a light press of lips, soft and sweet and chaste, but the way Daryl moves into it, with every ounce of feeling he has, leaves Rick with the idea that there’s potential for _more_.

It’s over too soon, and Rick thinks to chase after the touch, to get Daryl’s mouth on him again right bloody _now_ , but his body doesn’t move and he just stands there, stunned, blinking like a deer in headlights. Because everything he’s wanted has just occurred in the space of the last ten seconds, and Rick needs a moment to process, to compute, to—

“ _Shit_ ,” Daryl says, stumbling backward. “I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ , Rick.” And before Rick can catch his arm, can remember to call out _Daryl, wait_ , Daryl turns and bolts in the opposite direction.

Rick touches fingers to his lips, feeling oddly bereft now that Daryl’s gone. He knows the desperation behind Daryl’s kiss, knows the feeling so well it hurts. 

The misery of _I’m in love with you, but you don’t feel the same_.

Suddenly, all of Daryl’s _Can’t do this no more’_ s and excuses make sense, and Rick could tear his hair out in frustration, because he’s let Daryl think that he was alone in this, all this time. 

_I’ve got to make things right_ , Rick decides. To fix things somehow. To let Daryl know he’s not the only one in this equation and that they’re in this together, like they _have_ been for everything.

He hightails it to his place in less than five minutes, and wrenches the leftover blank cue cards from where he’d stashed them last Christmas—in the corner of the closet, after his reckless and impulsive confession to Lori—because this time, he has something he needs to _say_. And Rick knows he’s not the best at speaking, so he writes everything he feels, puts pen to paper to let it all flow into being.

It’s hard work, making sure his writing’s legible as he scrawls words onto cue card after cue card, with a boldness he wishes he had, a boldness he doesn’t feel, but knows he’s got to muster. Because this is _Daryl_ they’re talking about, and he deserves only the best from Rick. Not this timid, unsure approach Rick’s been using, one of constantly circling, careful, afraid to dip his toe in the water.

He’s got to make it clear to Daryl how he feels, _tonight_ , before Rick loses him forever.

When he gets to the last cue card, Rick stops and thinks, wondering how to say what he’s felt the whole year, trying to find a way to put into words what Daryl’s come to mean to him. Cycles through _perfect_ (too trite), _remarkable_ (too generic) and _lovely_ (entirely too sentimental for Daryl’s taste), before settling on the one word that holds all the affection and love Rick’s stupidly held hostage. 

**_To me, you are…_ **

He writes the last word in, careful, making sure it doesn’t look like chicken scratch, before flipping through his collection of CDs. Finds the perfect album, the perfect _song_ , and jams it into his portable stereo, before rushing back out and setting it all down in the passenger seat of his car. 

And as he kicks the car into gear, throws his foot onto the accelerator, Rick can only hope it’s not too late—not to win Daryl’s heart, because Daryl’s made it painfully clear it’s _been_ Rick’s, all this time—but to offer his own heart, truthfully, faithfully, without the fear that’s plagued him every step of the way, until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick is finally going places and doing things! :D
> 
> Feel free to guess what the mystery word is, and find out next chapter if you guessed right! ^3^ Thank you all for reading!


	13. To Me, You Are...

~

The drive to Daryl’s place can’t be more than ten minutes, but it feels like ten hours, and as Rick pulls up, he sees the porch lights are dimmed, like there’s no one home.

 _Please_ , Rick thinks. _Let him be here_. 

He knows there’s a chance Daryl might not be. That he might’ve gone to the park to clear his head, or out to the woods even, in which case Rick doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding him.

A glance at the driveway along the house tells him Daryl’s bike isn’t there, though it’s just as likely that he’s parked it around the back. It’s the latter that Rick’s hoping for, when he makes the trek up the stairs, a short flight that has him at the door within seconds.

_Please_ , Rick prays, as he sucks in a breath, the bite of the winter night cold and sharp. He shifts his cue cards and stereo onto one arm, and presses the doorbell. _Please_.

There’s shuffling and a muttered curse as someone bumps into something, but when the door opens, it’s Daryl all right, and Rick can’t help but grin, warm and wide and relieved at the sight of him. 

From the looks of things, Daryl was probably about to head to bed, because his hair’s damp from being freshly showered, but he looks sleepy and rumpled, his grey tank top riding up his stomach just the tiniest bit. Rick’s tempted to reach out and touch, to see just how Daryl’s skin feels against his fingertips. To find out if it’ll feel like Daryl’s hands, weathered and rough but capable of all the warmth and skill he’s shown Rick. Or if it’ll be soft and smooth, like honey melting warm upon his tongue.

But Rick knows he has no right to touch; not unless he says his piece, not until he’s let Daryl _know_. 

Maybe not even then.

He catches a flash of surprise on Daryl’s face, before his expression settles into one of wary disapproval. “It’s late, Rick,” says Daryl. He sounds all kinds of tired, and _hurt_ , and Rick just can’t have that. “What do you want?”

Rick stares and stares, at Daryl, who isn’t closing the door in his face. Daryl, who’s just kissed him and is still willing to talk to him, put off going to _bed_ for him, just to answer his call at the door.

Daryl’s about to nudge the door shut anyway when Rick doesn’t speak, which is when Rick realizes he has to get his act together, and fast, flashing the first of the giant cue cards he’s tucked under his arm:

**_Please don’t close the door._ **

Daryl huffs out something close to a laugh, before a frown tugs the edges of his mouth again, and he waits for Rick, watching as Rick sets down his portable stereo, snorting as it starts up a tinny rendition of _It Won’t Be Christmas Without You_.

As he turns back to Daryl, Rick nearly fumbles the cue cards he’s holding, but he manages to catch the edge of the last one, the most important one, before it dips into the snow. Hopes to god they’re in order, as he shows them to Daryl, one by one, hoping that everything he’s feeling is translated into the cards that Daryl’s reading:

 

_**I’m not the best at speaking my mind.** _

__

_**And I’ve probably taken for granted** _

_**the way we speak with our eyes** _

_**and our hands** _

_**through the simplest touches** _

_**and even the softest whistles in the woods.** _

__

_**But I need you to know** _

_**not just because it’s Christmas** _

_**and not just because you tell the truth at Christmas** _

_**but because this is a truth** _

_**I’ve wanted to tell you all year** _

 

Rick’s just in time for the dramatic guitar riff of the song, hands trembling as he makes it to the last cue card: 

 

_**To me, you are everything.** _

 

Daryl just blinks at him, stunned, and Rick’s not sure if it’s in disbelief that he dared show his face around here again, or if it’s that Rick just confessed his undying love to Daryl. He takes it as a win that at least he didn’t flash a thumbs-up at Daryl like he’d done at Lori, like an idiot, but Rick’s shoulders still slump in disappointment as he turns from the door. Of course Daryl wouldn’t just jump into his arms, of course Daryl wouldn’t be willing to—

Only, Daryl doesn’t let him walk away from the door. Doesn’t chase him down the street, boots tamping across gravel-filled snow. Just tugs him _in_ , and _close_ , and kicks the door shut with his toes, before backing Rick into it, pressing into his warmth as he cups Rick’s cheeks in his hands and kisses him. 

It’s not a chaste little peck, not one that says _thank you_ and _goodbye_ ; it’s warm and sweet and _Daryl_ , and Rick can only breathe him in, let Daryl’s tongue slip between his lips, as Daryl speaks volumes about how he feels, things like _I want this, I want this to work, I want_ you. 

And because he can’t let Daryl think he’s alone in this, Rick slips fingers into Daryl’s hair. Winds his other hand around Daryl’s waist and pulls him in, deepening their kiss, as he thinks of Daryl, looking more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen, more than any snow-dusted Christmas angel, any well-proportioned nymph at the Louvre. Breathes in his soft, flyaway hair, and drinks in the taste of his lips, kiss-swollen and redder than the garish tinsel that lines the houses from here to the end of the street.

“Was that okay?” Daryl mumbles against Rick’s mouth, when they have to break apart for air. It’s heavenly, the way a warm breath of air ghosts over Rick’s lips, as Daryl breathes into him, against him, around him. 

“Was more than okay,” grins Rick. “ _More_ than okay.” He leans in for another kiss, this one softer, sweeter, and undeniably less rushed than their first one. Their second. Takes the time to explore the roof of Daryl’s mouth, the rolling texture of his tongue, before letting it slide gently over teeth. 

Daryl pulls back from the kiss for just a second, and Rick hears a low whine of disappointment, before realizing the whine’s come from _him_. “Maybe we should—” Daryl tries, before Rick noses his way into Daryl’s neck, the hollow of his throat. Licks Daryl’s Adam’s apple, to test how hard he’ll have to suck to leave a mark. “ _Rick_ ,” Daryl says eventually, caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation, “we oughta take this inside.”

Rick has to admit Daryl has a point there; the back of the door’s getting hard on Rick’s back, and it was never his plan to spend all night in the doorway anyway, so they stumble further inside, a tangle of eager limbs and searching mouths. Make it as far as the couch, where Rick notices that the television’s playing _It’s A Wonderful Life_.

They’d been planning to watch that one together on Christmas Day, and that it’s playing now hurts something in Rick’s heart. Because it means Daryl had given up on Rick ever speaking to him again, after that kiss in the dark. That he’d resigned himself to never having the one he loved love him _back_. 

“Thought I’d start early,” Daryl says, sheepish. “Didn’t know if we were…gonna be good, you know?”

Rick takes up his customary position on the couch, his head pillowed in Daryl’s lap and his feet up on the arm of the couch like they always are. But this time he threads his fingers through Daryl’s hand. Brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it, soft and safe, as he closes his eyes and breathes in, revelling in the smell of pine and earth and everything _Daryl_.

“We’re good,” Rick assures him. “We _are_.”

There’s a burst of sound from the television, and Daryl says, “Oh, right—just got to the part where the angel shows this guy all the lives he’s touched, just by _livin’_.” His eyes are wide with wonder, and hope, and even if Rick’s seen this movie a thousand times before, he’s never seen it with Daryl. So he settles into Daryl’s lap and watches it with him like they planned to, even if he’d really like to continue with the messy, heated kisses they’d started out by the door. 

To touch his lips to the tiny, genuine smile on Daryl’s face now. Slip his hands beneath Daryl’s shirt and trace fingers over the broadness of his chest, the softness of his belly. The hard curve of his cock. 

Rick tries to distract himself from all those thoughts by focusing on the movie, but even then he starts thinking of all the lives _Daryl’s_ touched, including his own. Finds his gaze drawn back to Daryl, time after time, taking in every detail of his own guardian angel.

They’re only a minute in before Daryl realizes Rick is only watching _him_.

“You all right?” Daryl asks, his brow furrowed. Like he’s worried. Like he’s wondering if Rick’s changed his mind about all this, is going to turn it around on Daryl and say, _maybe we should stay friends after all_. 

“More than all right,” Rick smiles, deciding to dispel Daryl’s fears this instant. He reaches up with a hand to cradle Daryl’s cheek with his palm. Smiles when Daryl leans into the touch, hesitant at first, then surer, like a cat chasing a warm beam of sun, and draws Daryl down to meet his mouth.

It’s warm and slow and all kinds of sweet, especially when Daryl’s lips part to let Rick’s tongue slip between them. But as good as it is, Daryl needs to know something, and it can’t wait a second longer. 

“I wanted to,” Rick breathes against Daryl’s mouth. He’s reluctant to break off their kiss, because Daryl’s lips are the red of fresh raspberries and Rick wants to suck one between his teeth and nibble and tease, to hear Daryl gasp against him. “That night, at the tunnel of lights,” he says. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Daryl says, quiet. 

“How much you—how much I—” _How much you’ve come to mean to me. How much I love you. The words_ , Rick thinks desperately, _say the damn words_.

“Told me through your cards,” Daryl offers gently. “And you’re tellin’ me now.” 

Rick throws an arm over his eyes, letting out something close to a sob, because he can’t meet Daryl’s gaze, warm and forgiving and everything it shouldn’t be. He’d let Daryl suffer for three _days_ , maybe even longer. Because he couldn’t find the words. Because he’d lost his courage.

Daryl kisses Rick’s palm where it’s flung out over his eyes. His wrist. The inside of his elbow. Just soft, encouraging little kisses that don’t ask for anything in return, that don’t force Rick into saying anything he’s not ready to share, and that’s when Rick pulls Daryl in, tight, cupping Daryl’s cheeks in his hands. Looks into deepest shadow blue as he gazes into Daryl’s eyes and says, “I love you.” 

Daryl blinks at him, stunned, and Rick swallows hard, sucking a deep breath in. Finds he doesn’t need to gather his courage, like they’re lost shards of glass, doesn’t need to draw it out from a well inside of him, because _Daryl_ , right here, gives him courage. 

“I _love you_ ,” Rick says again, in case there’s any mistake. In case Daryl’s too stunned to have heard, and Rick’s left the smallest shred of doubt about just how it is he feels.

But Daryl’s nodding, like he’s taking the time to think this through, to process Rick’s words, instead of just flinging out a response to placate him. And just when Rick’s given up, on the hope of ever hearing the words back, Daryl breathes in and closes his eyes. Leans in to touch his lips to Rick’s again, like his confession wasn’t an earth-shattering revelation, but just a sentiment shared between lovers, soft and secret and heard only by those it’s meant for.

“Yeah,” Daryl says. Another kiss, to Rick’s nose. His jaw. “Me too.”

Something unclenches in Rick’s chest at the sound, his words of love reciprocated, returned, and they sit like that, the sounds of the movie soft and muted around them, as they breathe each other’s air. Share kisses to noses and cheeks and lips, each as breathy and warm as their first. Gentle touches, with feather-light fingers, to show each other how much they’re adored.

“Wish you’d said somethin’ sooner,” murmurs Daryl, when he’s had his fill of kisses, and needs to draw a breath of air. “Thought all this time, you were just bein’ friendly. Couldn’t…couldn’t stand it no more.” He pauses, before pressing into Rick’s neck and breathing in the scent of him, but Rick thinks it’s so Daryl won’t have to meet his gaze. “Bein’ so close to you, but not bein’ able to have you.”

“I didn’t think you were—didn’t think you could—” Rick says, before realizing there are so many reasons he could give that all boil down to _I was a fool_. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he says finally. “I should’ve, and I’m sorry.” For a moment, he’s glad Daryl can’t see _his_ face either, as he sits up and buries his face into Daryl’s neck, ashamed. 

He’s content with this for now, Rick tells himself. Nosing into Daryl’s neck, warm. Pressing kisses along his brow. His nose. The strong line of his jaw. 

Except he’s not, and he knows it, and his hands betray him, slipping beneath Daryl’s shirt to stroke at smooth, warm skin. 

Daryl gasps into his mouth, a little whimper of surprise. Catches Rick’s wrist where it’s slid its way up Daryl’s belly, rasping against the fine dusting of hair. “ _Rick_ ,” he says softly. It’s not in reprimand, or anger, but Rick thinks to apologize anyway, before he’s silenced by Daryl’s mouth on his, gentle. “Show me,” Daryl says simply. “ _Show_ me.”

And maybe all the neurons of Rick’s brain are _finally_ firing on high, because Rick makes the connection between what he’s been saying and what Daryl’s saying, and an electric-bright set of synapses brings it all together: _Show me that you love me_.

“Yes,” Rick breathes against Daryl’s lips, a promise, an oath. “ _Yes_.” Because he intends to spend the rest of this night, this holiday, this _life_ doing just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**  
>  Confession, In the Snow:[ It Won’t Be Christmas Without You – Brooks & Dunn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSlioH0DqQw)
> 
>  
> 
> So there you have it, the iconic cue card confession scene, from _Love Actually_ — [ but with a Rickyl twist](http://eyeus.tumblr.com/post/145627348002/supernaturalymarvel-rickyl-love-actually)! We’re only a few chapters from the end now. Thank you all for staying with this fic so far! See you in the next chapter!


	14. A Proper Demonstration

~

It only takes Daryl’s encouragement and invitation for Rick to spring into action, and suddenly his kisses are fierce and hot and _everywhere_ at once, like he can’t decide which part of Daryl he wants to worship first. Like Daryl’s the last breath of air in a forest fire gone wild, and Rick needs him, needs to take in every part of him, to stay alive.

“Wait,” Daryl says suddenly, his palm pressed against Rick’s chest, in a clear order of _down, boy_ , and laughs. It’s an unrestrained sound, bright despite the gravel, and Rick can only watch, can only try to memorize the way Daryl looks like this, so genuinely _happy_. “Not here, Rick,” Daryl says, finally. “People gotta _sit_ on this couch.”

And Rick’s answering laugh echoes as he holds back the _just people like us_ and instead stands up and takes Daryl’s hand. Leads him down the hallway, and into the bedroom, where Daryl’s one indulgence in the cramped room is the queen-sized bed.

The movie forgotten by now, Rick walks Daryl backward into the bed, until he’s pressed Daryl into it, the two of them rolling against blue camo sheets Daryl had picked out from the local department store. But then Daryl’s grinning and pulling Rick flush against him, his mouth hot against Rick’s, his hands slipping just as greedily down the waistband of Rick’s jeans. Cupping handfuls of Rick’s ass and pulling Rick against himself, the grind of their cocks through fabric a friction too good to resist. 

“Daryl,” Rick groans. It’s not enough skin or warmth or _Daryl_ , and suddenly Rick’s wishing all the layers between them were gone, and he sets about accomplishing just that. Slides fingers into the hem of Daryl’s shirt and upends it over his head in one go. 

He’s just about to undo Daryl’s belt, but Rick’s will is weak, and the sight of Daryl’s nipples, sitting pink and flush against pale skin, is enough to have Rick leaning in to take one into his mouth. To capture the other in his fingers, kneading and twisting, until Daryl’s moaning beneath him, a mess of gasps and nonsense words that have Rick redoubling his efforts, because this is the sound of Daryl undone. 

This is the sound of Daryl, _his_ Daryl, in the throes of pleasure, and he’d give anything to hear this sound forever, if only it means Daryl’s happy too.

It’s only when there’s a hardness pressing against Rick’s belly, insistent, that he remembers there are other things that need attention too, and he’s undoing Daryl’s belt, leather through the loop and out the clasp, when Daryl lays a hand to his shoulder, stilling him.

“Rick,” Daryl says, quiet. His voice is a little breathless and his hair adorably pillow-tousled, but he’s showing a degree of restraint that Rick’s finding impossible to muster himself. “Just…just thinkin’ we should take this slow instead.” He catches the look of confusion in Rick’s eyes before his own gaze slides away. “Unless you were just lookin’ for a quick—”

“ _No_ ,” Rick breathes out all at once. He wasn’t looking for quick, or release, or an awkward bout of fumbling before saying goodbye, and his heart aches at the thought of Daryl thinking that might happen. 

But he can’t imagine why Daryl, whose hands on him had been just as greedy and wanting and hungry, would want to stop, to slow things down, before he remembers they’ve never done this before. Never come this far, despite all the time they’ve spent together. This is new territory, Rick thinks, and Daryl’s right in that they should take the time to map out the land. To study the terrain of each other’s bodies, in touch, and taste, and sound. 

“You’re right,” says Rick, exhaling softly, as he leaves the buckle of Daryl’s belt behind. Pushes his way back up to meet Daryl’s mouth, inverting his own shirt over his head as he goes, letting warm skin meet, slow, until they’re belly to belly. Chest to chest. Mouths brought together in a softer, sweeter kiss. 

They’ll have time for hunger and need and fire-hot desire, but now is the time for unhurried exploration. Measured, careful touches, along the skin of Daryl’s neck, soft, smooth. The broadness of his shoulders, tapering into the corded muscle of his arms. 

Daryl runs feather-light fingers along Rick’s back in turn, letting them circle each knob of his spine, gentle. Skitters them down along Rick’s sides, skimming over love handles that Rick hasn’t quite lost from his days of coffee and donut subsistence, before slipping them below the waistband of Rick’s jeans. Shifting the fabric downward to caress the curve of his buttocks. His thighs. 

_So_ that’s _the game we’re playin’_ , Rick says through the arch of a brow. Watches as a small, devious grin grows wider on Daryl’s lips. _Slowly, but surely?_

_Uh huh_ ¸ Daryl nods. 

Two can play at that game, Rick decides, and he shifts his way southward again, this time taking the scenic route. Giving due care to Daryl as he deserves, through the worship of his body, each prayer a press of lips against skin, deliberate, reverent, _warm_. Marking a path along the line of his jaw. The smooth column of his neck, brushing away hair where its curled in at the edges. Down the centre of his chest and over his navel, before following the smattering of hair south into the line of his jeans. 

He lets his gaze meet Daryl’s for just the briefest moment, sees permission in the small dip of his chin. Makes sure to take care in unbuckling Daryl’s belt and undoing the zipper of his jeans. Daryl lifts his hips, the motion instinctual as Rick tugs them down, lifts them up and off, before letting his hands roam the rasp of hair on Daryl’s thighs again. Wrap around his hips, like manacles, to pin him to the bed for what’s to come next. 

“Rick?” Daryl asks, his voice soft, a little hazy with pleasure. It doesn’t stay that way for long, when Rick leans in, nosing at the warmth and smell, of sweetness and musk, and mouths at the fabric of Daryl’s boxers, taking care to lick right where the spot of wet is forming. “ _Rick_ ,” he gasps. “You don’t gotta—”

Rick shakes his head from where he’s positioned. This is more about _wanting to_ than _having to_. He _wants_ this. Wants to show Daryl he’s ready, for whatever it takes to be with him. And he wants to give Daryl pleasure, make him feel _good_ , to show Daryl how much Rick wants _him_. 

And when Daryl sighs a _have it your way_ , Rick bridges the distance between Daryl’s reservations and his own eager want, lets the great divide slip away from between, as he shifts the fabric out and away. Presses a kiss to the tip of Daryl’s cock, half-hard between his legs, licking away the pearl of nectar that’s welled out, closing his eyes as he savours the sweet tang of it, exotic and new. Before long, he’s closed his lips over it, gentle, careful to keep away teeth as he sucks and licks, letting his hand stroke what he can’t fit in his mouth. Keeps his other hand busy with rolling Daryl’s balls between his fingers, pressing into the seam, thumb kneading gentle circular motions as Daryl moans and writhes and twitches beneath him.

His technique is still clumsy and inexperienced, but he’s trying his best to emulate the adult videos he’s seen online, and by the sound of Daryl’s gasps, he can’t be doing _too_ badly.

“Rick,” Daryl cries, and it’s a near sob as Rick touches his tongue to the slit again, licking around, licking at, and finally flicking his tongue for a gentle press _in_. “I’m gettin’ close, I— _ah_ —”

But Rick only hums around him, contemplative, hands anchoring Daryl to the bed, as he arches into Rick’s grasp. 

“ _Rick_ ,” Daryl breathes, his last warning, but this time it’s quiet, and full of warmth, because they both know what’s going to happen. What Rick’s decided on. 

_Come on, then_ , Rick dares, never letting his gaze stray from Daryl’s. Lets his ice-blues meet Daryl’s, an invitation and challenge the same. _Come for me, come inside_ —

Daryl moans something that sounds vaguely like _fuck_ as he bucks into Rick’s grip. Like _fuck_ and _Rick_ and _god_ as he spills into Rick’s mouth. 

It’s salt and tang and _heat_ , and Rick swallows every drop of it, revelling in the taste of Daryl. The sound of his cries as his hips jerk and twitch. The clutch of his hands against the sheets, shaking, trembling, like he isn’t just coming, but experiencing something transcendental and freeing, the very pinnacle of bliss itself.

“That was…” Daryl gasps between breaths, before settling on, “That was.”

And Rick breathes out in relief, because that means he hadn’t been all _that_ bad. That the time he’d spent experimentally searching up gay porn for what he’d like to do Daryl, or what he’d like to have done to himself, hadn’t been a complete waste. But then Daryl’s drawing him up, licking Rick’s tongue as he chases the taste of himself into Rick’s mouth, banishing all those errant thoughts. Rick’s of a mind to say _no_ and _wait_ —he hasn’t even rinsed his mouth yet—but if Daryl’s not complaining, then there’s no place for Rick to, and Daryl looks entirely too satisfied for Rick to say no to anything, anyway.

“Good?” Rick asks aloud. 

“Mmhmm,” Daryl hums into Rick’s mouth. The traces of come melt away with each kiss, each velvet-soft lick, until all he tastes is the sweetness of Daryl’s tongue, of apple and nutmeg from the cider they’d shared only hours ago. 

Rick thinks he could live with this, just kisses flavoured with mulled cider and Daryl and love, before Daryl’s frowning, the endearing little furrow appearing between his brows again. 

“What’s wrong?” Rick asks. He kisses the furrow, like he can somehow smooth it away if he tries hard enough. “Did I do somethin’—”

“No,” Daryl says. “It’s just, I wanna—I oughta—” And despite his boneless sprawl beneath Rick, he manages a feeble wave in the direction of Rick’s cock, straining hard against jeans, a very obvious tent of _how dare you neglect me_.

“It’s all right,” Rick soothes. “There’s no rush.”

And there isn’t, because he’s finding this gentle exploration of the way their bodies fit together, of how they move together, their motions different but just as instinctual in the bedroom as it is in every other setting, incredibly satisfying. Like the appreciation of a fine, aged wine, as opposed to the fleeting satisfaction of beer.

Before Daryl can argue that it’s not fair, that they should both have their chance at pleasure, Rick rolls off him and shuffles his way in behind Daryl—jeans still a barrier between them, because he can’t trust himself if he kicks them off—until his chest is hot against Daryl’s back. Draws the sheets over them, careful. 

“Been a long day,” Rick says, feeling a familiar bone-tiredness creeping into his mind, his body, until every part of him just aches to fall asleep. “And this can wait.” He can hear Daryl draw a breath, to protest, but he presses his face into Daryl’s hair, laying a kiss to the wisps curled around his ear. “Tonight…tonight’s all about you,” he whispers. 

Daryl turns enough in Rick’s arms to face him, his brows raised, in a silent question of _Tonight? That mean you’ll still be here in the morning?_

“Yeah,” Rick assures, with a decisive little kiss to Daryl’s nose. “I’ll still be here.” He pauses. Then softer, lower, “And every morning after. If you’ll let me.” He slips an arm around Daryl’s waist and pulls them flush against each other, this time all the more wonderful for Daryl being warm and pliant and _responsive_ against him, the unspoken question asked in Rick’s embrace: _If you’ll have me_.

Daryl responds by pressing back against Rick, snuggling further into him with a soft, shivering sigh. “Yeah,” he says, and Rick catches the grin on Daryl’s face before he turns away again, wide and bright and genuine. Rick’s hand is pillowed beneath his neck, and Daryl reaches up to tangle their fingers together, warm. “Don’t even have to ask.”

And maybe they haven’t finished off the night with a dramatic reading of _‘Twas The Night Before Christmas_ to celebrate the Eve, but as Rick settles against Daryl, cozy and safe beneath the covers, he’s only too glad to have Daryl in his arms now. 

To know that he adores Daryl, cherishes him, but most importantly, is cherished by him in _return_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this week, sorry! But the upcoming one is a hefty one, followed by a meaty epilogue! Thank you all again for following this fic so far! And a very merry Christmas, if you celebrate it! :D


	15. Dawn Breaks

~

Rick’s content like this, curled around Daryl, letting the dark and quiet recharge his energy as they sleep. So it’s a surprise when Rick wakes to the curious sensation of being kissed awake, light presses of lips dotting the landscape of his neck. His shoulders. Finds that they’ve shifted during the hours asleep and that Rick is the little spoon now, tucked into Daryl’s space, Daryl’s arm slung over his waist, and under Rick’s arm, palm pressed lightly to Rick’s chest.

“Mornin’,” Daryl says, his voice a low, sleepy rumble. There’s a breath of a laugh, as Rick’s pulse quickens in his chest, beating so quickly he’s sure Daryl can feel the mad flutter of it against his palm.

“Mornin’,” Rick mumbles, blinking awake. He turns and strains to check the time on the clock, but Daryl’s already rolled onto one elbow, blocking his view, watching him. Taking in the sight of him, sleep-rumpled and dazed, as he curves his palm around Rick’s cheek, stroking, gentle. Lets them sift through tangled curls.

The sun’s just started peeking in, a soft and crimson glow between the curtains, which means it’s still early. Means it’s not quite morning in the way Rick wants it to be quite yet, and that technically, anything they do now could still be counted as part of the Christmas Eve festivities.

By the silly, pleased little grin Daryl’s sporting, it seems he’s had the same idea.

“How was your sleep?” Rick asks, just to be sure. It wouldn’t do for either of them to fall asleep during their early morning festivities. 

Daryl hums, as he nudges his face into Rick’s neck. “Good enough.” Presses a kiss to the base of his neck. Another kiss, higher, beneath the curls nestled just behind his ear. “Been better since you been here.”

The sentiment is so sweet that Rick can’t help but turn fully in Daryl’s arms and nuzzle their noses together, before drawing him in for a kiss that’s soft and leisurely and gentle. They spend long moments like this, just revelling in each other’s warmth and the taste of each other’s mouths, but when Rick moans into Daryl’s mouth from a well-placed shift of his hips, Daryl’s kisses start migrating lower—like he thinks it’s high time he repaid the favour Rick bestowed on him last night. 

His soft presses of lips mark a wandering path, from the corner of Rick’s mouth to his jaw. The base of his throat. The jut of Rick’s collarbone, that Daryl graces with a light nip of teeth, before pausing over Rick’s nipple, tongue darting out to taste, warm.

“ _Daryl_ ,” Rick breathes, biting back a gasp as Daryl takes one gently between teeth and nibbles, a straight shot of pleasure to Rick’s groin. He slides fingers into Daryl’s hair, not to guide, but to anchor himself, to this moment, to Daryl. “That’s good,” he whispers, as Daryl turns to lavish his attention on Rick’s other nipple, kneading the one that’s been freed with just the right amount of pressure, his fingers clever, skilful. “That’s…”

He never gets to finish his sentence, because Daryl’s started blazing a path down the line of his belly, his kisses growing hotter, more feverish, the lower he goes. Unbuttons the jeans that Rick hadn’t trusted himself with earlier, urging Rick to raise his hips so Daryl can slide them off. 

“Reindeer?” Daryl snorts, raising an brow, as he gets an eyeful of Rick’s boxers.

Rick ducks away, trying to will away the warmth that’s flooded his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah—keep laughin’, they were the most festive pair I had,” he says. Maybe they’re not as safely generic as Daryl’s storm greys, but Rick can attest that his burgundy boxers, with their prancing, spritely reindeer, have _character_. “It’s Christmas, Daryl, come _on_ ,” he says. “People wear things like Santa hats and reindeer antlers.” He waves a hand in the direction of the offending garment. “It’s not that bad. Comparatively.”

Daryl huffs a laugh before stroking the outline of Rick’s cock through the thin cotton, teasing and slow, drawing out the pleasure he could give Rick with each brush of his fingers. But it builds enough pressure to have Rick harden against the fabric, and before long, all thoughts of embarrassing boxers are pushed aside in favour of writhing and gasping beneath Daryl’s touch. 

“More,” Rick begs. “ _More_.” 

Daryl’s hands are at his hips, tugging Rick’s boxers down and off, and he turns for a moment to drop them to the side, but then he’s _there_ again, his fingers curved around Rick’s cock and it’s so wonderfully _freeing_ that Rick can’t help but whimper at the immense pleasure of it.

“How’s that?” Daryl asks, as he curls his fingers around the shaft, stroking, teasing. Presses his thumb along the slit, gentle. 

“Good. _Yes_ ,” Rick hisses, as Daryl does something with his thumb that’s just the right balance between pleasure and pain. And suddenly it doesn’t seem fair to Rick, that this pleasure be so one-sided, because he wants to give as much of it to Daryl as Daryl’s giving _him_. So he nudges and tugs until they’re repositioned along the bed, with Daryl kneeling over him, his cock hanging tantalizingly over Rick’s jaw. 

“This all right?” Daryl asks, turning to look at Rick, and when Rick nods his affirmation that _yes_ , this is how he’d like them to be, Daryl returns to mouthing at Rick’s cock, his lips closing sweetly over the head, licking and teasing and wet. His fingers setting an easy rhythm over the shaft, pausing now and then to caress a breezy pattern along Rick’s sac, as much a torment as it is a tease.

It’s only fair that Rick returns the favour, but Rick’s decided that he knows the taste of Daryl’s cock now, of sweat and musk and a sweetness that’s all Daryl’s. That there’s something different he wants to try, but only if it’s all right with Daryl. So he shifts further backward, repositioning Daryl’s knees a little wider on either side of him. Lets his lips kiss a trail along the inside of Daryl’s thighs.

“Rick?” Daryl asks, confused, before Rick presses another reassuring kiss to the left cheek of his ass.

“Just wanted to try somethin’,” Rick says. And when Daryl nods, Rick braces his hands along the crease of Daryl’s hips, thumbs kneading skin as he spreads the cheeks wide to expose his hole. Presses his tongue against the small, tight pucker of muscle, and licks inside.

“ _Rick_ ,” Daryl groans. “Wait—god, _ah_ —”

But even if he jerks in Rick’s grasp, startled, he doesn’t say no, and Rick takes it as a sign of encouragement, a sign to keep going, and he licks at Daryl’s entrance, tracing small, teasing circles into skin and muscle, letting the sound of Daryl’s moans wash over him. His little gasps of surprise as Rick presses inside with his tongue, letting it dip inside, then out, the precursor of everything he’d like to do Daryl. The tiny whimper of wonder as Rick curls his tongue, licking into the scent of soap and sweat and a musk that’s completely Daryl’s.

Suddenly, Daryl’s wrapping lips around Rick’s cock in turn, as he makes those _very same sounds_ , the moans and gasps and whimpering sighs, the vibration of each one traveling straight through Rick’s cock to a central control centre of pleasure. Has Rick arching into Daryl’s mouth with a long, breathy moan of his own. 

His cock feels fuller and harder than it’s ever been, and it strikes Rick that this is almost a game of sorts, to see who can give the other more pleasure, who can outlast the other, and while Rick won’t say no to a little friendly competition, he can’t think of what else he can do to top what Daryl’s doing to him—until he _does_. 

“Daryl,” says Rick, the sound of his name a small warning for what’s to come. 

Daryl doesn’t look up, but he nods, the bob of his head a burst of blinding pleasure as he makes a motion with his tongue on the downstroke, the flat of his tongue pressing hard against the slit of Rick’s cock.

Rick doesn’t come right then and there, but it’s a near thing, and he has to pat Daryl’s thigh, a motion of _easy there_ that Daryl takes to heart, as he slows the motion of his tongue, and takes care to draw out each lick from root to tip. Nuzzles into the nest of curls at the base of Rick’s thighs, taking time to savour the scent of Rick. The taste of him. 

It’s as much as a window of opportunity as Rick’s going to get, and he takes the moment to lick into the crease of Daryl’s ass again. Presses his tongue up and _in_ , but this time, adds a finger alongside, gentle, testing the give of Daryl’s muscle, the amount needed for pleasure and how much it can stand before pain. 

“Rick,” Daryl pants. He’s let go of Rick’s cock with his mouth and hands. Has to brace himself against the bed with his elbows, Rick’s next push in of his finger drawing a loud and whimpering _ah_. “God,” Daryl manages between breaths, his moans coming faster and breathier. “Fuck. _Ah_. Rick, _please_.”

Rick decides to interpret this as an appeal for more of the same, so with spit-wet fingers, he presses deeper, harder, a liquid slide that has Daryl arching his back and crying out once more. He’s worked his way up to two fingers, knuckle-deep inside him, when Daryl jolts like he’s been shocked.

“Daryl?” Rick asks, worried. “You all right? Didn’t mean to hurt you. Here, I’ll—” He makes to pull his hand away, because _damn it_ , they’re only a few minutes in and already he’s made this more uncomfortable for Daryl than it needs to be. He’d be lucky if Daryl ever let Rick near his ass again.

But then Daryl’s clenching around him, keeping him in place, a motion that has Daryl biting back a gasp, and the sound of it makes Rick want to throw him down, to take him right this _instant_. So he’s more relieved than he should be when Daryl says, “Ain’t hurt,” his voice a new kind of breathless. “But what you did there—again. Do it _again_.”

Rick hums against warm skin, obliging, shifting himself further back to better position his fingers. And when he’s worked out a position that’ll accommodate both of them, he curls one palm along Daryl’s hip, and with his other hand, presses inside again, aiming for the same spot that elicited that first lovely spark of reaction from Daryl. Strokes him inside, revelling in velvet-smooth muscle and the cadence of Daryl’s moans, knowing he’s found just what he’s looking for when Daryl cries out, hips jerking against Rick. 

“There?” Rick asks, teasing, as he drags his fingertips over the area again. Takes in the lovely tremor of Daryl’s thighs as he gasps and shakes in Rick’s grip. “Like that?” 

And of course Daryl wants it _there_ and like _that_ , judging by the clench of his muscle around Rick’s fingers, and the _ah_ ’s and _nngh_ ’s Daryl’s trying so hard to keep back, but Rick’s having entirely too much fun wringing those delectable little moans from Daryl. So he strokes and pets, alternating between soft, experimental touches, and harder rasps of his fingers against muscle, and even the lightest edge of fingernail, until Daryl’s a moaning, writhing mess. 

“Rick,” he whispers. “ _Please_.”

Rick blinks, letting his fingers slip out, and touching a kiss to Daryl’s thigh. “Daryl?” he says, needing confirmation, that he’s interpreted that plea correctly, because Daryl couldn’t be asking for—they haven’t _talked_ about this yet, and—

“Please,” Daryl says again, and Rick knows that’s _it_. That it’s the last time Daryl will ask, because he’s not one to beg, ever, and the fact that he’s doing that right _now_ means something.

Rick brushes a kiss to the inside of each of Daryl’s thighs, to make sure he knows he’s loved and wanted and adored, before shifting out from under Daryl. Repositions them in the bed, until Rick can cup his cheek with a palm, safe, and look into Daryl’s eyes, to be certain Daryl wants this. That he’s absolutely _sure_.

Because Rick would be lying if he said he didn’t want this, hadn’t wanted since the day they met, but he’s got to know that Daryl wants this too. 

“You’re sure about this,” Rick says, watching for any sign to the contrary in Daryl’s expression. “I just…I don’t…” _I don’t want you to feel like you have to_ , Rick thinks. He’s wanted Daryl for so long, so badly, but the last thing he wants is for Daryl to think he has to do this, to keep Rick.

Daryl must take his hesitation for something else, because he says quickly, “We don’t gotta do that tonight.” His eyes are half-lidded and all kinds of alluring even as he gazes up at Rick. “Not ever, if it ain’t what you want.” He’s wound his arms around Rick’s waist, and the nervous, hopeful clutch of them around Rick makes him hurt for Daryl. He’s got to say something, to correct him of his silly notion that Rick doesn’t want him this way, in every way there _is_ to want. 

“Daryl,” he tries. “I—”

Daryl cuts in before Rick can continue. “Bein’ with you like this? It’s enough.” He closes his eyes and presses into Rick’s touch, the palm he’s curved against Daryl’s cheek. Like he’s fine with just the pleasure from hands and lips and tongues, and kisses beyond measure. Like he understands if Rick can’t, _won’t_ go all the way with him, because having Rick like this is more than enough, more than Daryl deserves, and Rick’s chest grows tight at the thought. “You don’t gotta…”

Rick presses his thumb against Daryl’s lips, gentle, and silences him with a kiss, one that Daryl surges into, more desperately than he needs to, as if he’s afraid it’s Rick’s concession to not wanting what Daryl wants. And _god_ it’s a kiss Rick could get lost in, one he wants to enjoy forever, but he needs to remedy this imaginary hurt that Daryl’s seemed to work himself into. 

"I _want_ to,” Rick breathes into Daryl’s mouth, savouring the warmth of the air between them, and the closeness, from mouth to chest to belly, a press of skin on skin that warms Rick even in all the places they’re not in contact. He tucks his feet beneath Daryl’s calves, and cups both of Daryl’s cheeks with his palms now, balancing himself on his elbows so Daryl can look into his eyes. To see that there’s no lie in the words Rick’s saying. “I _want_ to, so much, because I want _you_.”

“But you—” Daryl manages, before Rick surprises him into silence with another kiss, this one soft and sweet and lingering, one that leaves Daryl trembling beneath him, and arching up into him in hopes for _more_.

“I just, I don’t wanna mess it up, is all,” says Rick. “Been waitin’ too long to be with you like this.” 

Daryl releases a slow, shivering breath. “How long?” he asks, finally. “How long have you wanted this?” He pauses, before dropping his voice to a whisper and daring, “How long have you wanted _me_?”

And Rick thinks back to that sunny day in June, when he hadn’t been looking for love, hadn’t held out much hope for finding his _one_ , when Daryl had wandered into his life by happy chance. It feels so long ago now, that it might as well be—

“Forever,” Rick admits simply. “What about you?” 

“Forever and a _day_ ,” Daryl whispers, his eyes much too bright, and Rick leans in for another kiss, then another, soft presses of lips that speak of the tenderness and devotion that’s grown between them since the beginning. 

It’s Rick who has to draw away first, to take a breath. “I’m sorry I made you wait,” he says, returning with a flurry of feather-light kisses to nose and lips and brow, once he’s caught his breath. They could’ve had this for longer, for _months_ , if only Rick had taken the leap earlier.

Daryl sighs. “I’m sorry too,” he says. “I shoulda said somethin’. Done somethin’. Tried harder.” 

And Rick’s about to argue that Daryl had done plenty, that it was _Rick’s_ fault he hadn’t wanted to take the signs as Daryl meant them, but before it can devolve into a game of who’s sorrier for what, Daryl captures his mouth in another kiss. “Guess we oughta prove we’re sorry, then. Instead of lyin’ here, flappin’ our gums.”

There’s an easy grin on his face at that, and Rick just laughs, wondering just what he’s done to deserve this man, and this life. 

They spend a leisurely moment just kissing and touching, Daryl sliding hands along the line of Rick’s back, exploring each bump and rise and scar with his fingers. Mapping out the terrain of Rick’s body, from the mess of curls at the nape of his neck to his broad shoulders. The long, lean line of his back. Each knob of his spine. The love handles that Rick’s still working on getting rid of, from too many meals of donuts and coffee before he’d met—

Rick’s eyes fly open at the touch, because _damn_ it, he should’ve worked harder to get rid of them before Daryl saw him like this, and he shifts away uncomfortably when Daryl palms them, his hands closing over them, snug. But then Daryl’s soothing a hand over his back, gentle, rubbing warm circles into the base of his spine, as he keeps Rick in place.

“I love you,” he says, keeping hold of Rick like this, not letting Rick hide like he wants to. “I love _all_ of you.” Strokes the hand he’s used to palm one of Rick’s love handles gently along skin, reverent, as if they’re not something to love Rick _in spite of_ , but _because of_. To adore because they’re part of Rick himself.

The thought of that warms Rick from the inside out, and he nods his acknowledgement of it. Lets Daryl continue his exploration, as he settles back into the cradle of Daryl’s hips, marvelling at the way they fit together, perfect. 

Daryl lets his hands wander downward until he’s reached the curve of Rick’s ass. Cups it with both hands, his fingers kneading into flesh, grabbing big, greedy handfuls like he can’t get enough. Just pulls Rick against him, hitching their hips together as they set up a steady rhythm of movement against each other, one that brings their cocks together with pressure and friction enough to make the slide between them incredibly _good_.

“Rick?” Daryl says softly, the only word to break their easy rhythm, and Rick recognizes the look Daryl’s giving him, the inflection of his voice. He’s looking for permission, and Rick nods again, allowing whatever comes next, because he trusts Daryl completely, and whatever it’s going to be will probably—

“ _Ah_ ,” Rick gasps, jolting a little as Daryl presses the tip of a finger against his entrance, gentle. It takes him a moment to get used to the feeling, but when he’s closed his eyes to simply focus on Daryl, beneath him, just inside him, there’s something immensely satisfying about the experience. If this was how _Daryl_ felt when he—then Rick definitely wouldn’t _mind_ if they—

“Good?” Daryl asks, urging Rick to buck against him with a light twist of his finger, the two of them moaning in unison as their cocks slide together just _right_.

“G-good,” Rick manages, breathlessly, even if the word’s inadequate to describe the dual pleasures he’s experiencing, his forward motion driving him against Daryl’s cock, hot and hard against his own, and his backward upthrust pushing him further onto Daryl’s finger— _fingers_ now—“ _Fuck_ ,” Rick cries out, suddenly, “ _stop_.”

Daryl withdraws both fingers, and his small, easy grin falls away instantly. “You all right?” he asks. “Was that too much?” There’s the worried little furrow in his brow again, and Rick leans up to kiss it away, to show Daryl there’s no need for concern. 

“Just—” Rick says between small, shivering gasps. “Too _good_.” He huffs a shaky laugh before pressing their foreheads together. “If we keep goin’ like that, I’m gonna come, and I…” It’s suddenly incredibly hard to meet Daryl’s eyes, and Rick fidgets with the sheets instead. “I was thinkin’ I’d like to do that inside you, instead.”

“Oh,” Daryl blinks. And when Rick dares to look up again, there’s the widest grin on Daryl’s face, one that spreads from ear to ear, and he’s nodding even as he swallows, nervous. “Yeah,” Daryl says. “ _Yeah_.” And when he raises a brow and adds a _this time, anyway_ , Rick feels his heart leap in his chest, because that means they’ll both have a chance at the same pleasure down the road.

For now, he throws himself into the way that they’ve chosen, because it doesn’t matter _how_ they’re together anymore, only that they _are_.

They share a soft kiss, lazy, open-mouthed, wet, then another, and another, before Daryl reaches toward the wooden nightstand by the bed. Rifles through it with his fingers, and fishes out a bottle of lube, which Rick inspects, curious. 

“Is it just me, or does this bottle look less than half full?” Rick says. He holds the bottle between forefinger and thumb, peering at it in the moonlight filtering in through the curtains.

Daryl grunts. “Mighta used some to get myself off a couple times,” he says. And when Rick’s jaw drops open, to inform him that one does not simply use half a bottle for _just a couple times_ , Daryl adds hastily, “All _right_ , you caught me. I…” There’s the most becoming crimson flush filling his cheeks as he worries his lower lip between teeth. “I was thinkin’ of you, while I…and maybe it was more than a couple times, so it just went real fast, okay?” He says the last part all in one breath, like if he says it quickly enough, Rick won’t put two and two together and figure out why most of the lube’s gone. 

Except Rick _does_ , and it’s something he finds all kinds of adorable, and he has to kiss Daryl again this _instant_. “Been thinkin’ of me, huh?” he says finally, when they pull apart for air. He nudges their noses together so Daryl can’t look away, and grinds his hips against Daryl’s for a delicious friction that has Daryl clutching at Rick’s arms with a groan. “With more heads than just one?”

Daryl groans again, but Rick’s pretty sure this one’s more from the terrible pun than actual pleasure at their cocks pressed against each other. “Rick,” he says, squeezing Rick’s arm, impatient.

“All right,” Rick says evenly, taking a deep breath in. He’s glad they had this interlude, of silliness and laughter, because as much as he’s wanted this, he’s nervous as hell. But it only takes one glance to remember it’s Daryl beneath him, Daryl who wants Rick just as much. So he tries to remember what he’s learned from all the videos he’s watched, even if they weren’t exactly instructional in that sense. Tucks a pillow beneath Daryl’s hips to make the entry a little easier on both of them.

There’s an unopened box of condoms in the drawer that Daryl’s left half-open in his haste, but when Rick raises a brow at them, Daryl just waves a hand in answer. “From Merle,” he says, which is explanation enough on its own. He rolls his eyes. “His idea of a ‘housewarmin’’ gift.” At the question in Rick’s eyes, though, Daryl adds, softer, “I ain’t never done this before.” His eyes dart away as he looks down at the way he’s spread out on the bed, all for Rick’s eyes only. “Never wanted anyone, like this. Not the way I want _you_.”

Rick nods. “Me neither,” he says, and at the look they share with each other, they leave the box unopened in the drawer. Rick takes some of what’s left in the bottle of lube and spreads it liberally on his fingers. Presses a finger inside Daryl, easing it in slowly, to start.

“Is that okay?” he asks, because there’s the beginning of a frown on Daryl’s face, and his breaths are coming shorter and faster. He curls fingers over Daryl’s cock, stroking, gentle, each motion meant to distract Daryl from the pain.

“Yeah,” Daryl manages, before a come-hither quirk of Rick’s finger draws a sharp cry out of him. “God—yeah. C’mon,” he says, letting out a shaky breath. “Give me another one.”

Rick works his way up to two, letting them slide inside Daryl, a steady in-and-out that’s meant to work him open, slow. But Daryl’s clenched so _tight_ around his fingers that Rick can’t help but imagine what it’s going to be like, when he’s finally inside Daryl the way he’s wanted to be. He’s knuckle-deep when Daryl shudders and Rick knows he’s found what he’s looking for, repeating what he’d done earlier to draw forth Daryl’s delicious moans and sighs. 

On three, Daryl _begs_.

It’s a litany of _Rick, please, need you, fuck me, please_. And Rick nearly gives in, because Daryl’s begging so sweetly, a near-incoherent babble with how fast the words are coming, how breathless, but Rick musters every ounce of his willpower and presses back in with _four_ , because he won’t hurt Daryl for this. Won’t rush this for the sake of chasing his own selfish desire. 

“Rick,” Daryl pleads now, like Rick’s name is the only word he remembers. Like it’s the only one that matters. “ _Rick_.”

It’s the sound of his name, so wretched and desperate, that breaks him, the rasp of Daryl’s voice vulnerable, naked, and _raw_ , and Rick’s willpower crumbles as he lets himself be swept by the tide, the deluge of _want_ that consumes him.

“All right,” Rick hears himself saying, the sound of it a surrender, though at the sight of Daryl beneath him, cherry-flushed from his cheeks to his cock, where he’s lovely and leaking and wet, it’s not much of a surrender at all. “All right.” 

He takes a shaky breath to steady himself, before his need to be inside Daryl _now_ crowds out every other thought. Spreads what’s left of the lube along his cock. Makes sure there’s enough to coat himself properly so things will glide easy, before reaching out and bracing his hands against Daryl’s thighs.

Daryl’s worrying his lip between teeth again, like he’s afraid Rick’s changed his mind, but Rick reassures him with a kiss to each of Daryl’s calves. 

“I _want_ you,” Rick says. “I want you so _much_.” 

And when Daryl breathes out again, the soft, shivering sigh melting the tension from his body, Rick lines their hips up, careful. Leans forward, to press into Daryl, _finally_ , relishing the hitch in Daryl’s moan as he does so. The little _guh_ Daryl can’t hold back when Rick has to shift their hips to push deeper. He takes in the way Daryl’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open, for heaving, desperate breaths, just memorizing each detail he can because it’s perfect, it’s what Rick’s wanted, and Daryl’s so—Daryl’s just—

Absolutely, utterly _breathtaking_.

Rick has to take a moment to catch his breath, because Daryl’s so beautiful like this, his hair matted, sweat-soaked and dark, the blue of his eyes seized entirely by black. His lips are kiss-swollen, full, and redder than the ripest berries Rick’s ever tasted, and he can’t help but slant his body forward, to capture Daryl’s mouth for another kiss. For a taste of him that’s sweeter and filthier than any fruit Rick’s ever known.

Daryl whimpers at the motion, because it drives Rick that much deeper, and Rick swallows the sound of it, the wounded, hurt little cries, with the greediest of kisses. Takes them all into himself, because these sounds Daryl’s making, these shivering sighs and cries and moans, are all for Rick, and Rick alone.

They have to shift their positions to find one that works better, to let Rick keep rocking forward, but then Daryl tilts his hips just a touch and Rick arches his back just _so_ , and Daryl’s soft gasp and wince lets Rick know that he’s bottomed out. That he’s as one with Daryl as he can be. 

“All right?” Rick breathes, cupping Daryl’s cheek with his palm. He kisses the corners of Daryl’s mouth, soft, safe, not daring to move otherwise until the furrow of pain’s gone from Daryl’s brow. He’s got to make this as good for Daryl as it is for _him_.

“Just…” Daryl winds his arms around Rick’s neck, returning kisses as good as he gets, but only manages small fragments of words between breaths. “Need…” Daryl tries. “A minute.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “Fuckin’ _hurts_.”

Rick has to bite back a laugh, because that’s Daryl, all right. “Take all the time you need,” he says, just glad that Daryl hasn’t thrown Rick off him with an _It hurts and I never want to do it again_. 

It’s another minute, two, of just sharing breathy kisses to lips and noses and cheeks, and hands exploring each other’s bodies, before Daryl finally nods. “You can move,” he says. “But _slow_.” 

Rick hums as he undulates his hips, gentle, taking care to watch for any signs of pain. _Like this_? he asks through raised eyebrows, and a soft, hesitant kiss. He’s thoroughly encouraged when Daryl gives him a tiny nod, permission to continue with the slow, leisurely rhythm he’s built up between them. 

And when Daryl looks like he’s adjusted to Rick’s length inside him, his girth, Rick raises himself on his elbows, slipping arms beneath Daryl’s shoulders as he pulls back. Pushes back in with a thrust that’s got weight and force behind it, and watches as Daryl’s eyes fly open, panicked, a cry startled from him.

“Is that okay?” Rick asks. “I can stop—”

“No,” says Daryl, “don’t you _dare_. I’ll tell you if I need you to, but _don’t_.”

So Rick does it again, pulling back each time, before sinking deep into Daryl once more, until his thrusts come deeper and faster, and as Daryl starts begging, _harder_.

“More,” Daryl breathes, “ _more_.” And Rick’s rewarded when he complies, gripping Daryl’s thighs and settling them in the crooks of his elbows while thrusting up and in, as Daryl cries out, his fingers twisted into the sheets. 

It’s not long before Daryl’s biting the back of his hand to keep quiet, clamping fingers over his mouth, the action doing little to stifle the endearing little _ah_ ’s and _nngh_ ’s that escape, regardless. 

“You worried they’ll hear us downstairs?” Rick asks, careful to hold in the laugh that wants to bubble out. In case Daryl thinks Rick’s laughing at _him_. “The tenants in the basement suite?”

“They’ll hear _me_ ,” Daryl snorts, lifting fingers from his mouth to reply, and this time, Rick grins, wolfish, sharp, as he startles another _ah_ from Daryl before he’s finished talking. A lovely high note that earns him the most wrathful glare.

“Let me hear you,” says Rick, too drunk on the sound of Daryl’s pleasure to care. He lets Daryl’s legs slip from his elbows, and twines their hands together, to pin Daryl’s to the bed. “Let me hear you, and I promise you can do the same to _me_.”

He makes sure to move his hips in a well-aimed thrust, striking what he thinks is Daryl’s prostate head on. Revels in the actual _howl_ Daryl makes as Rick does it again and again, the choked breaths, the tears forming at the corners of Daryl’s eyes, each sign of Daryl’s arousal a pulse of pleasure straight to Rick’s cock. 

Daryl catches onto Rick’s game fast, biting down on his lip instead to keep quiet, but Rick won’t let him, coaxing Daryl’s mouth open with his lips, his tongue, for clumsy, off-centre kisses that ensure Daryl _has_ to cry out, has to be heard.

“Fine,” Daryl breathes, when it’s clear Rick won’t let the sound of him go unheard. “You win. But I’m gonna make you regret that promise, just you _wait_.”

“Mmh,” Rick says, smiling, because he’s looking forward to it, of course. 

For now, though, he busies himself with kissing Daryl’s mouth, his neck, tasting every part of him Rick can reach. There’d been a few drops of precome dotting the landscape of Daryl’s belly when they’d started, but now that it’s become a small, steady pool, Rick wants to taste that too. Wants to drag his tongue through the dusting of hair on Daryl’s belly and lap into the sweetness that’s built up between them. So with a little manoeuvring, he lets Daryl’s feet settle on either side of him, pulling out slowly and sliding down so he can nestle between Daryl’s legs. Curls his arms around Daryl’s thighs until they’re resting in the crooks of his elbows and dips his head into the plane of Daryl’s belly, tongue licking a stripe over faint hair, before coming to a stop over his navel. 

“Rick?” Daryl asks. It’s an inquiry of _what’re you doin’_ and _why’d you stop_ , all at once. 

Rick only hums and laps into Daryl’s navel where a healthy amount of precome’s pooled up, tasting salt and warmth, and he’s working his way toward the soft nest of curls, licking his way to the base of Daryl’s cock, the shaft, the head, when Daryl’s hand tangles in Rick’s hair and he hears a hissed _wait_. 

“There’s somethin’ I wanna try,” Daryl says, hesitant, but Rick’s already nodding, because this has all been about _trying_ and _experimenting_ and seeing what kinds of things bring pleasure to both of them.

He lets Daryl push him onto his back, even if he misses the taste of Daryl’s cock, wishes he could bring him to completion before finding his own in Daryl, but it’s only fair that Daryl gets what he wants too. So he’s not expecting it at all when Daryl swings a leg over Rick’s hips, straddling him, thighs braced on either side of him as Rick’s cock nudges against his ass. 

_Daryl?_ he asks, with his furrowed brow. 

Daryl only darts forward for a quick, reassuring kiss, before reaching back to stroke Rick’s cock with a hand, And before Rick can make another sound, can ask what Daryl intends to do, Daryl’s lifted his hips and is _sinking down_ onto Rick, for a lovely, slow slide that has Rick tensing and moaning as Daryl goes. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rick manages, the most coherent word he can find his repertoire, and Daryl must take it as the compliment it’s meant to be, because he just grins and lifts his hips again, slowly at first, then faster, his movements finding their rhythm until he’s bouncing hard in Rick’s lap and Rick can do nothing but hold _on_ , to Daryl’s hips, his thighs, watching Daryl ride him like he’s some wild bronco at a rodeo. “You feel so _good_ ,” he says, between the moans Daryl forces out of him, when he’s finally found words, found something that’s not _fuck_ and _good_ and _Daryl_ , because being with Daryl like this is more than Rick’s ever hoped for, and no one can blame him for being so overwhelmed for a moment. “So good.”

It’s like Daryl’s found his groove, his hands braced on Rick’s shoulders as he takes control from where he is, from how deep Rick can push inside him to the pace of their lovemaking—and it strikes Rick that, yes, that’s what this _is_ , and he looks into Daryl’s eyes, thinking _I want this, want you, want forever_ , knowing he won’t give this up for anything else. 

And at Daryl’s sudden, sharp cry, Rick realizes he’s gripped Daryl’s hips bruisingly tight, pushing into him hard from below, stepping up their rhythm into a frenzied pace, and he can’t hold back now, because it’d been so good, hadn’t realized how _close_ he was, and Daryl’s mouth is so sweetly red, so inviting, that Rick reaches out for him, throwing his arms around Daryl’s neck and tugging him in for kiss after kiss after kiss as he keeps thrusting hard from below, making sure he angles himself just right for Daryl’s benefit.

“Rick, wait. _Wait_ ,” Daryl gasps, his nails raking trails of raw heat into Rick’s shoulders where his fingers have clawed into flesh. “I can’t—”

And Rick tries, he really does, to listen, to _wait_ as Daryl’s asked, but a cry’s torn from Rick’s throat a second later, and he pulls Daryl in, sinking teeth into his neck, shuddering and shaking as he spills deep inside Daryl, hot and wet and hard. “Daryl,” he sobs. “ _Daryl_.”

Above him, Daryl’s shaking apart himself, and there’s a sudden heat on Rick’s belly, his chest, his _jaw_ , before Daryl collapses him on him, boneless, like the strength’s just left his limbs all at once. 

They spend a moment catching their breath, waiting until their harsh, heaving panting gives way to the softer breaths of bliss and wonder and hopefulness, and Rick tangles fingers into Daryl’s hair, to bring him in for a kiss, catching Daryl’s gaze in his hooded eyes and keeping it. 

“What were you tryin’ to say, earlier?” Rick asks, making his apology through kisses to nose and lips that he couldn’t wait as Daryl had asked. He catches Daryl’s lower lip between his teeth, and nibbles, teasing. 

“Nothin’,” says Daryl. “Just that I wasn’t gonna last much longer. Seems to me though, neither were _you_ ,” he adds, thoughtful, and Rick can’t help but laugh. 

And maybe it’s not appropriate, what he desperately wants to say, because he’s heard how you’re not supposed to say stupid stuff like this after sex—that it’s only the hormones talking, that it’s your body on a high—but Rick’s pretty sure of what he’s feeling, and the last thing it is, is stupid.

“I love you,” he says, cupping Daryl’s cheeks in his hands, making sure Daryl’s looking at _him_ , and hearing his words, so he can know the depth of feeling, the weight of truth behind them. Brushes away a lock of hair that’s fallen over Daryl’s brow, and tucks it behind his ear. He braces himself for the _me too_ , or the _yeah_ that he’s sure will come, or the other words that’ll mean Daryl doesn’t feel as much or as deeply, even if he knows that’s an irrational fear. 

Because it’s obvious to Rick now, how much Daryl _does_ , from every action he takes and every move he makes, in which he’s always, always keeping Rick in mind first. 

Daryl blinks at the sentiment, like he’s still not used to it. There’s a twitch of a smile at Daryl’s mouth, before he realizes there’s no need to hide his happiness around Rick, and it turns into a grin, full and lovely and wide as he hums and drops a clumsy kiss to Rick’s nose. 

“I love you too,” says Daryl, surprising a tiny gasp from Rick as he leans in to take Rick’s mouth for the wettest, filthiest kiss, his tongue pressed so deep it feels like it’s in Rick’s throat. Daryl winces as Rick slips out of him, but Rick’s there with a hand to soothe his back, rubbing circles softly into the base of his spine. “You know I do. But _damn_ , we sure made a mess.” He’s still grinning as he says it, though, and Rick can’t feel too bad as Daryl reaches for a rag in the nightstand to clean them off, only laughs and squirms away when Daryl’s touch upon skin feels almost like he’s being _tickled_.

“Stop,” Rick giggles, “ _stop_.” But he’s dodging Daryl every which way as he talks that it ends up sounding more like _staaahp_ , and when they tire themselves out—or rather, Daryl just throws the balled-up rag at him and tells him to clean _himself_ up if he’s going to be like this—they curl together on the bed, just like they always have, Rick’s hips and knees and toes against Daryl’s, perfect in their alignment. 

“You know,” says Daryl, winding his fingers through the hand Rick’s thrown over his waist, “I always wondered if you knew you were doin’ it.”

“Doin’ what?” asks Rick. He shuffles closer to hear Daryl’s answer, and Daryl’s hand tightens around his, like a stealthy, slow-springing trap. 

“This cuddlin’ thing. Whenever we shared a bed.”

_Oh_. Rick stills instantly. _Oh, shit_. Maybe it hadn’t been the first time, but Daryl must have been awake some of the instances after, and god, Rick feels his face flush hotter than an over-fuelled barbeque. He makes to move away, but Daryl must have seen this coming, because he tugs Rick back by the hand, like he won’t let him go anywhere, now that he’s got him. 

“I was thinkin’ that maybe we coulda gotten here a lot sooner, if I. If I’d just tried.” Daryl turns in Rick’s arms now. “Just like I’m doin’ now. If I’d just turned around and…” He swallows hard, and Rick knows from that that Daryl’s blamed himself too, for how long they took to get here. To know what they are to each other.

“We’re here now,” Rick says gently. “That’s all that matters.”

Daryl’s eyes dart away for a moment, before he swallows again, and this time he slants their mouths together for a kiss, one that’s softer and sweeter than the ones they’d shared earlier. “Yeah,” he says finally, smiling against Rick’s mouth. “You’re right.”

Rick’s awake for minutes longer after Daryl’s drifted off to sleep, just thinking about the things they’ve said and shared and talked about, all in the last few hours. And maybe it’s true that neither of them dared, for the longest time, to take the plunge, to say the words, because they’d both been afraid, but they’d done everything else in their power to show it, which is _fine_ , because they’d gotten there in the end. 

He’s starting to realize from this that love isn’t always in the grand, sweeping gestures, and dramatic confessions in the rain or snow, or whatever the hell’s popular on television these days. That it can manifest itself in little things, in little touches and kindnesses, all the ways they’d shown each other over the months how they felt, whether it was through an extra toothbrush or shirt, the sharing of a bed, or even a customized cake. Rick’s only sorry he was too blind to see Daryl’s gestures for what they were, too worried about how _he_ was going to make the grandest gesture. 

And Daryl— _Daryl_ had seen, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, in case it wasn’t what Rick meant. Because it’d hurt a whole lot less, if Daryl decided it’d been a whole lot of _nothing_ , in the end.

Rick spares a moment to wonder just how long Daryl’s been trying to tell him the same damn thing, marvelling at how Daryl had stayed for so _long_ despite all this, but he decides that’s not a thought worth dwelling on anymore, because Daryl’s here, in his arms, and that’s more than Rick could have ever hoped for. 

He lets his feelings show through new ways now, the ways he’s always wanted, through little kisses to the nape of Daryl’s neck. His fingers curled gentle around Daryl’s wrist, to feel the steady thrum of his pulse. Wonders, hopes, and imagines how many more ways he’ll find, in the days to come. The seasons. The _years_. 

It’s with this thought, and the feeling of Daryl warm and snug against him, that Rick _finally_ finds a peaceful rest of his own.

~

The time draws nearer to noon before either of them wakes again, and even if the sunlight’s muted by the frost on the windows, there’s enough of it to shine through the curtains, bathing everything in a soft, cornsilk glow.

This time, it’s Rick who’s in charge of _kissing your lover awake_ duties, and he takes to his task with all the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store, nosing his way through Daryl’s hair to get at his neck. Graces the soft spot behind his ear with a number of concentric kisses, before moving on to the nape of his neck, vulnerable now that his curls have been nudged away. The dip of his back between his shoulder blades. 

Daryl makes a lovely little snuffling noise and snuggles deeper into the blankets, like he’s trying to get away, but Rick follows him down into the covers, because Daryl’s never getting away again—not now, not ever, and especially not on Christmas _Day_.

It’s not long before Daryl gives in, finally stops curling and tunnelling his way through the blankets, putting a stop to their little game of blanket tag. Lets Rick nuzzle into him, arms wrapped around Daryl’s waist. 

Rick takes the opportunity to tuck his chin into Daryl’s neck and _rub_ , because the faintest shadow of a beard’s already starting to come in, and the scrape of his jaw against smooth skin fires the feeling of _mine_ in Rick’s chest like nothing else. 

Only, Daryl knocks him away sleepily, murmuring something about how beard burn is actually at the bottom of his Christmas wishlist. 

Rick nudges into his space again, careful this time, and he’s about to ask Daryl what was at the _top_ , but by the way Daryl lowers the covers, just for a second, and turns to peek over them at Rick, it’s obvious. 

“Oh. You too,” Rick says, with a grin that’s every kind of goofy, as a blossom of warmth unfurls in his chest. “At the top of mine.”

_Leave me alone then_ , Daryl says through his cocooning into the sheets. _Or you ain’t never gonna cross that item off_.

“Daryl,” Rick breathes, because apparently Daryl’s grumpiness isn’t enough to dampen his Christmas spirit. “ _Daryl_.” Makes sure the smoothest part of his jaw’s the only point of contact with Daryl instead, because he could spend all morning just nuzzling into him. Pulls himself away from the temptation of that by shifting onto Daryl’s other side, until he can look into Daryl’s eyes, and wraps his arms around Daryl’s cocooned form, blankets and all. “Merry Christmas,” he says, his own eyes bright with excitement. “For real, this time.”

Neither of them are counting the bleary-eyed wake up from earlier as waking up on Christmas morning, so this is what’ll pass for Christmas, here in this little room.

“All right, all _right_ , I’m up,” says Daryl, yawning, like he’s given up on trying to get more sleep. Rubs away the speck of grit at the corner of his eye. “Did Santa come while we were asleep?” he asks, with a sleepy half-smile.

_No, but_ you _sure did last night_ , Rick wants to say, before deciding it’s a joke in poor taste. “He didn’t,” Rick says, unable to stop his grin from shining through anyway. “But if we swing by my place, you might find he’s left a little somethin’ for you there.”

Daryl actually giggles at that, and Rick’s about to attribute this to him being soft and vulnerable, his guard down completely in the mornings, when Daryl elbows him aside on his way to get to the closet. 

No, not vulnerable at all. 

“Where’re you goin’?” asks Rick, sorry to see Daryl leave the comfort of their blanket nest so soon. He tries to tug Daryl back in, his living dynamo of heat, but Daryl’s insistent about getting something from out of the closet, even if his feet keep tangling in the blankets, or Rick’s limbs, which may or may not be entirely intentional on Rick’s part.

“Got somethin’ for you,” Daryl says, turning back from his arduous journey to explain. “Was gonna give it to you today, when I came over to help make dinner. You know, before…” There’s a touch of shyness in his expression and a telltale flush creeping over his cheeks. The tips of his ears. And when it reaches the tip of his nose, Rick can’t help but draw him in and kiss him, again and again, for how it’s all kinds of adorable.

“ _Stop_ ,” Daryl says, trying to fend off Rick’s kisses, though he doesn’t try very hard, even letting two or three make it through. “Keep this up, and you ain’t never gonna know what your gift is.”

“You mean you got me somethin’ besides _you_?” Rick grins, lazy and soft.

That only serves to intensify the blush that’s flaring across Daryl’s cheeks, and this time Rick kisses the twin spots of color, cherry-bright despite the cold of the room, because he can do that now. He can show how much he wants and loves and adores Daryl, without being afraid. 

When Daryl finally catches on to what Rick’s doing with the blankets—namely, trapping him inside them like he would a small animal, or a lover he’s not ready to let go of—Daryl winds his arms around Rick’s neck, and draws him in, distracting him with the sweetest kiss, one that’s all soft, clinging lips and just the tiniest scrape of teeth.

Then he promptly heaves the covers back, in one fluid motion, leaving Rick blinking in the cold, and huddling by himself on the bed, with a resentful little pout. 

“I’ll be back,” Daryl promises, and maybe he’s feeling merciful today, because he pulls the covers back up to Rick’s chest when he leaves. Touches lips to his own hand and presses it to Rick’s hair, the kind of indirect kiss Rick’s given to Daryl so often before.

Rick mumbles a muffled agreement, and since Daryl’s out of the bed now, he decides to take the opportunity to ogle him in broad daylight. He’s imagined it, of course—the way Daryl looks buck naked—but until now, he’s never seen it in such detail, and Rick takes a moment to admire the taut line of Daryl’s ass. The bruises of his fingerprints pressed purple into Daryl’s skin, eager and keen and possessive. The free and easy swing of his cock, that Rick had in his mouth only short hours ago, and maybe inside him too, soon, if he has anything to say about it. And the scars on his back, remnants of a harder life than Rick ever wanted for Daryl, that make something in Rick’s chest hurt. But he vows to himself that when Daryl’s ready, Rick will kiss each and every one of them, to make them _his_ , to mark off all the cruelties and hardships Daryl’s gone through that have made him the man he is today. Leave the demons emblazoned in ink along Daryl’s back the only demons he’ll ever have to suffer again.

“Gonna have to call you an eye doctor,” Daryl says, a package balanced in his hands as he slips back into bed. He sounds deeply concerned, his brow furrowed, which in itself, is worrying, because he only does that when he’s seriously bothered.

“Why’s that?” Rick asks. “Got somethin’ in my eye?”

“No,” Daryl says, snorting a laugh. “’Cause it looks like you need help puttin’ ‘em back in your head.”

Rick only laughs in turn, because there’s nothing wrong with Daryl catching him staring. In fact, he’s _pleased_ , if the sudden flush of color in Daryl’s cheeks is anything to go by. He’s about to pull Daryl in for another kiss, because _god_ he can’t get enough, when Daryl shoves Rick’s present into his hands. 

It’s wrapped with garish green paper, the roll of which Rick can still see propped up in the corner of the room, and there’s a ragged piece patched onto it, as if Daryl ran out of paper on that side during the wrapping. Still, it’s the thought that counts, and Rick breathes in, appreciative, as he drifts fingers over the wrapped paper. He hadn’t expected anything from Daryl, because just his company is gift enough, but this—this is—

“Go on, then,” Daryl says. “It’s Christmas Day, what else you waitin’ for?”

And that’s all the permission Rick needs, as he presses an impulsive little _thank you_ to Daryl’s lips and gets down to carefully tearing away the paper.

“Saw this, and I thought of you,” Daryl says, fingers picking at a loose thread in the sheets. “Thought maybe we could watch ‘em together,” he adds, when Rick reveals a boxed set of Robert Mitchum’s westerns that he’s never seen.

“Think I’d like that,” says Rick, smile so wide it hurts, because he appreciates the gesture and the thought that Daryl put into choosing it. Kisses Daryl again, and as he does so, thinks of the special bolts he’d bought for Daryl. 

They’re ones to fit his crossbow, with lightweight, carbon shafts, and an increased wall thickness for durability; Rick had seen the way Daryl yanked his bolts from their quarry to reuse time and time again, and had stressed _durability_ to the people at the hunting shop until one of them had rolled his eyes, slapped down a set and said _Here you go_.

He’d had a few other ideas too, like the boot rack he’d seen at the department store, or the hook meant to house a motorcycle helmet and gloves, but the one Rick had finally chosen, like Daryl’s gift, had been for an activity they could enjoy together.

“We’ll have to get a move on to my place,” Rick says, “if you want your gift.” He wonders when they won’t have to make the distinction between _mine_ and _yours_ anymore. But it’s early days yet, and Rick won’t risk what they’ve got right now for the sake of something more. 

Daryl must see the look in his eyes, because he takes Rick’s hand, threading their fingers together, safe. “Want more than that,” he says simply. “So I guess we got a lot to talk about. How we’re gonna do this.” And Rick’s heart leaps anew in his chest, as he nods a _yeah, absolutely_ into Daryl’s neck, because Daryl gets him, really _gets_ him. “But first we gotta eat,” Daryl adds, “because I am goddamned _hungry_.”

Rick falls back against the pillows, laughing, because they’ve got plenty packed away at his place, including pecan pie and spiced apple pudding, and the rack of ribs they’ll probably burn since they’ll be too busy kissing. But he’s already making a plan to surprise Daryl with Christmas brunch, to make up for the dinner they missed making last night. And they’ve got a few hours in between, to work on whetting their appetites for Christmas dinner, but Rick can think of a few ideas—most of them involving the bed. Or the couch. Or the kitchen tab—

“Yeah,” Rick says, clearing his throat, and his mind, because Daryl’s already started to narrow his eyes at him, a look that clearly disapproves of his priorities. “We’ll have to eat first,” he says, assuring. “And _then_ we’ll have to choose another movie for today, since we jumped the gun a little on _It’s A Wonderful Life_.”

Daryl hums, even as he toys with the curls by Rick’s ear. “Got any ideas?”

“How about _Wings of Desire_?” Rick suggests. It’s oddly fitting, he thinks.

“That the one about the angel wantin’ to leave Heaven and become human?” Daryl says. “’Cause of the one he loved?” He furrows his brow, like he doesn’t quite get it. “Ain’t much of a Christmas movie.”

“No,” says Rick, the smile on his face soft and adoring, as he gazes up at Daryl. “But I think it’s an _us_ movie.” He glances over at the angel wing vest hanging on Daryl’s closet door, and when Daryl follows Rick’s gaze over, he laughs. 

“You’re givin’ me too much credit,” Daryl says, shaking his head, like it’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “I didn’t fall from Heaven or nothin’.”

Rick just keeps on smiling, the edges of it lazy and warm as he reaches up to stroke fingers through Daryl’s hair in turn. “Sure you did.” 

Daryl rolls his eyes and snorts, but there’s a smile there, one that’s working its way into a full-on beam, like the light that’s always pulled Rick through, in good times and bad. And all Rick can think is _Lucky for me that you did, that day on the sidewalk._

_Lucky me_.

They spend long moments just basking in the glow of the early afternoon sun, a cheery pastel-brightness along the walls of the room. Just stroke and touch with feather-light fingertips, taking comfort in each other and the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

_When you wanna head out?_ Daryl asks eventually, the question in his eyes. The change in the pattern he’s stroking along Rick’s chest.

Rick’s eyes drift open from where they’ve been half-lidded, drowsing in the light and Daryl’s warmth. “Later,” he says. “Just wanna spend a little longer here with you, for now.” He rolls into the remnant heat of the sheets, tugging Daryl in with him. “Maybe do some other things too,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows. “But first some cuddlin’. And some snugglin’.”

Daryl blushes at _cuddling_ and _snuggling_ , rather than what came before it, which Rick finds wholly endearing and rewards him with a gamut of feathery kisses to his nose for. But Daryl nods an _all right_ into Rick’s shoulder, to his suggestions. Lets Rick wind arms around his neck to draw Daryl close in the bed once more.

“Cuddlin’,” Daryl all but demands, when they’re safely ensconced in the warmth of the sheets again.

And together, on this quiet Christmas day, as Rick hums his agreement and slips his arms and legs into the spaces between them, they do just that.


	16. What Comes After

~

Daryl gets his revenge in the end, when, upon embarking on a bout of lazy, afternoon shower sex—in which Daryl takes Rick against the tiles of the shower, Rick’s legs hoisted in the crook of Daryl’s elbows and his arms around Daryl’s neck—Rick discovers that the shower room _echoes_.

And so do Rick’s moans, by extension. 

It’s after that—and a fair amount of blushing on Rick’s part, now that he knows the same embarrassment—that they finally get around to unwrapping the rest of the gifts at Rick’s place. Drinking the eggnog. Eating the half-burnt rack of ribs, thankfully only half-burnt because Daryl had vaguely heard the timer from inside the bedroom, mid-kiss. They also enjoy a slice each of the strawberry cake they’d ordered, which turns out to have yet another, final surprise in store for them: a multi-layered core of red velvet cake in the shape of a heart, that’s only obvious once the cake’s been cut away.

It’s even longer after that, before the conversation they’ve been tiptoeing around comes up. And it’s Rick who brings it up this time, because the onus shouldn’t always be on Daryl to say the things that need saying, even if they’re hard. 

“You told me,” Rick says, carding fingers through Daryl’s hair, gentle, “that you wanted more than this. That you wanted to talk about how we’re gonna do this.”

Daryl blinks from where he’s sprawled along Rick’s couch, head pillowed in Rick’s lap. “We don’t have to do nothin’,” he says quickly, before Rick presses a finger to his lips, and kisses him. 

“What is it that you want?” Rick asks. It’s too much to hope for, that Daryl’s list might match up with Rick’s, but he’s got to try, to suss out what it is he can do, to make Daryl’s happiness as much as Daryl’s made his.

“I…” Daryl’s eyes fix firmly on his knees, and it seems he can’t meet Rick’s gaze. Spends the silence picking at a loose thread in his jeans instead.

When a minute passes, then another, Rick takes a small, shivering breath. Lays a kiss to Daryl’s forehead, his cheeks, each touch a fire-bloom of courage for Rick’s heart. “Can I tell you what _I_ want?” he asks softly. And when Daryl nods, Rick summons every ounce of what bravery he has, and says, “I want us to live together. I want to wake up every morning with you beside me, so I can kiss you awake. I want us to be _together_ ,” Rick says slowly, stressing the most important part of it, “in every sense of the word.”

And he hopes Daryl understands, he really does, that this isn’t a quick fuck-and-forget, or a friendship of benefits and convenience. That this is something Rick is in for the long haul, if only Daryl wants to join him down that road. 

“It doesn’t have to happen right now, or the next year, or even until you’re ready,” says Rick. “I just…I wanted you to know.”

Daryl’s gaze returns to meet Rick’s and his first response isn’t even cast into words. He just sits up and draws Rick toward him, slips his palm around the nape of his neck, warm, before touching their foreheads together, like Rick’s done for him, so many times before.

“I could do that,” Daryl says, and Rick’s wishing he could see Daryl’s eyes at this moment, hoping for the glimpse of the shadow-blues he loves, when Daryl raises his head, and nods, his expression one of hope and happiness and wonder. “I _want_ to do that,” he says. “I want _that_.”

And it’s just that easy. 

There are, of course, several things they need to take care of before that happens. For one thing, Daryl has to tell his landlord that he’ll be vacating the house at the end of month; he’d argued to stay until the end of January at least, but Rick had figured if they were going to do this, there was no point in Daryl paying for another month’s rent for nothing.

So in the days leading up to the new year, Daryl places a quick call to Tucson, Arizona to let them know he’s moving.

“They’re pretty understandin’ people,” Daryl says, when Rick gives the phone a worried glance. “I think.”

Rick only hums his doubts, and presses a kiss to Daryl’s bare shoulder. Lets his fingers skim the dip of Daryl’s waist while Daryl waits through the ringing of the phone. 

It’s not long at all before someone on the other end picks up, and Rick watches them trade the usual greetings and holiday wishes, before Daryl steers the conversation to the heart of the matter.

“Yeah, I’m all paid up through December,” says Daryl, after giving them notice about his move. Rick can only guess at the other half of the conversation. “Why am I movin’? Oh,” Daryl blinks. “I, uh.” He glances at Rick. “I’m movin’ in with my…”

Rick cups a palm around Daryl’s far shoulder, and squeezes, gentle. “Partner,” Rick says helpfully.

“With my partner,” Daryl finishes, giving Rick a look that’s full of warmth and affection.

Rick beams back at him, shifting closer to him on the edge of the bed and letting their hips press together, warm. They’ll have to figure out the logistics of what exactly to call each other after, but for now, he won’t leave room for doubt in Daryl’s mind about what they are, with weak words like _friend_ or _buddy_. 

He lays another kiss to Daryl’s skin, this one in the junction between shoulder and neck. Then another to the base of his throat, where he darts out a tongue to lick at Daryl’s Adam’s apple. Rick decides he’ll have blazed a trail of kisses up to Daryl’s jaw by the time the call’s over, and considers extending the frontier to the corner’s of Daryl’s mouth. His nose. His eyelids. Territory he’s charted before, but is always happy to once again explore.

“Thanks,” says Daryl into the phone. He nudges Rick, gentle—not a disapproval of Rick marking out his roadmap of _mine, mine, mine_ , but rather a statement of _hold on a sec, so I can enjoy this too_. “Yeah, will do. Happy New Year to you too.”

“Well, what’d they say?” Rick asks, when Daryl’s hung up the phone. He’s worried they’ll still wring another month’s rent from Daryl, especially since it’s on such short notice, but Rick’s prepared himself to foot that bill, because it’s _him_ who wants Daryl to move in with him so quickly. 

Daryl just shrugs. “They’re fine with it, I guess. I’ve already paid for this month, so they know I’m not runnin’ out on them.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Said they were happy for me. For findin’ a more ‘permanent situation’.”

 _Yeah_ , thinks Rick, the simple statement making him inordinately happy. He tugs Daryl close, winding arms around his waist before taking his mouth in a kiss that’s deep and wet and all kinds of ecstatic. _I’d like that to be us, too. Permanent_.

It doesn’t take much time before Daryl’s moved all his things over to Rick’s, since he hadn’t had that much to begin with, and even less time after that, before an assortment of unexpected gift baskets start arriving.

There’s one from Rachel and her family that contains a painted dragon Lucas made in art class, and a pair of sack dolls Aurora stitched together that are _supposed_ to be Rick and Daryl, along with a collection of wine, smoked salmon, and cheeses. Tucked just inside is a handwritten note in Rachel’s loopy scrawl, that says, _Congratulations! Let me know when the wedding is! — xoxo, Rachel_.

There’s also one from Shane and Lori, that says simply, _Best of luck, brother — Shane & Family_.

Rick had to wonder how _they’d_ found out, and he’d wanted to set it aside where they wouldn’t have to look at it, but Daryl had said they could use the things in it, then broken it apart and organized it piecemeal into the kitchen, until it was impossible to tell which breads and honeys were theirs and which had come from the basket.

Then Rick had given Shane a call to say thanks, to wish them luck with the baby, and upon being asked if he wanted to be the godfather, had said he needed to talk it over with Daryl first, before making a decision.

 _Not right now_ , he’d nodded at Daryl, who’d been with him the entire duration of the call, fingers wound lightly into Rick’s other hand.

And Shane, before they’d hung up, had added, “Listen, Rick. That day at the lights, when we ran into you? I didn’t—I didn’t know you were actually, you know. Didn’t mean to make it sound—I didn’t mean the stupid shit I said.” There’d been a rustle on the other end, and Rick could imagine Shane raking a hand through his hair, as he mumbled _Christ, you know I’m no good at apologizing_.

“I know,” said Rick. He’d smiled as he said it, though, because it’d been just the right kick in the pants to get both him and Daryl moving, into acknowledging what was already there between them. And when he’d caught Daryl’s eye, Daryl had smiled too, knowing exactly what he and Shane were talking about. Squeezed a little _good thing he did_ , into Rick’s hand.

All in all, the move’s gone better than Rick expected. He’d thought their families would say they were rushing things, or making impulsive decisions from their holiday high, but no one’s asked, or even said anything, despite the speech Rick prepared for that very occasion. 

In fact, when Rachel and her family had come over after Christmas, with gifts of matching sweaters, towels, pajamas, and a set of spiced drinks, Rick had shared with her their plan, and she’d immediately said to Lucas and Aurora, “Now you can visit _both_ your uncles, at the same time!”

And _that_ was a sentiment met with a resounding _Yay!_ to Rick and Daryl’s deep embarrassment. It was true; at least this way, Rick wouldn’t have to drive over to Daryl’s to pick him up when the kids visited, and Daryl wouldn’t have to shuttle them back and forth in the tiny sidecar he’d built for them. 

They’re rearranging the living room and organizing a few other gifts from Rick’s colleagues at the station, when the doorbell rings. 

“You expectin’ anyone?” Daryl says, raising a brow. It’s just after dinner, and most of the parcels that have been arriving come in the morning or afternoon.

Rick slots the shelf they’ve bought to house Daryl’s hunting gear into place. “No. How about you?”

“No.” Daryl shrugs, as the doorbell rings again. “I’ll go see who it is, though.” He peers through the eyehole, and Rick sees him take a step back, his lip curled. 

Rick thinks he’s got a pretty good idea of who it is; there aren’t a lot of people who can give Daryl that unique expression, somewhere between exasperated fondness and exhaustion. “Who is it?” he asks anyway.

“It’s _Merle_ ,” Daryl says, confused, like he hadn’t expected his brother to show up. “Thought he was still sleepin’ off the night before.” He frowns, and Rick can tell that’s his _don’t wanna deal with him right now_ look. 

They’d traded words, Rick knows, when Daryl had gone to get a few of his things. And god knew when Merle was drunk, not all his words were kind. Daryl had returned later in the night, his shoulders hunched, hair in his eyes, and tucked himself into Rick’s space without a word. Curled against him on the couch like Rick was his shield, his protector. It wasn’t until he’d taken to Daryl to bed and kissed him breathless, to make Daryl forget, that he’d found out just what Merle had said. And it was only at Daryl’s insistence that he’d be fine in the morning, that Rick kept himself from stomping over to Merle’s and tearing him a new one, drunk off his ass or not.

Rick pinches the bridge of his nose, drawing in a sharp breath. “I’ll…I’ll take care of Merle,” Rick says. “You go on upstairs, I’ll be right there.” He steels himself for the worst, because Merle’s presence is abrasive at best, and downright volatile when he’s riled up.

The doorbell rings again, this time an irritated three-punch note that has Rick thinking he’ll have to adjust the volume of the damn thing.

“Hey, Officer Friendly!” calls Merle from the porch. He kicks at one of the two Adirondack chairs Daryl had built and brought with him, for ‘kickin’ back and beer sippin’’. “You tryna make me freeze my balls off here, or what? I _know_ you’re home!” 

Daryl rolls his eyes, before stepping in to give Rick an encouraging little peck on the lips, and makes his way upstairs, quickly and quietly.

Rick makes a show of stomping up to the door, like he and Daryl hadn’t just been discussing Merle from behind it, and edges it open, careful. “Merle,” he nods. He notices Merle craning his neck to peek through the doorway and into the hall, and adds, “Daryl’s not here.”

“My brother ain’t with you?” Merle says, crinkling his brow. “Huh. Thought you two woulda been busy gettin’ cozy in your little love nest.” He draws the word _love_ out, making it sound more lewd than it really is. “All you’re missin’ now is a little front porch swing, and then you’ll be livin’ the _dream_ , huh?”

Biting back a sigh of exasperation, Rick decides not to take Merle’s taunts to heart. Takes it as a suggestion instead, one he might add to the list of DIY-projects he and Daryl have started putting together. 

“Daryl just stepped out to buy something from the hardware store,” says Rick, angling himself just enough to cover the view of the stairs behind him. Hoping Daryl’s hidden himself well, in case Merle decides to push his way past Rick. “There anythin’ I can help you with, Merle?”

“Nothin’, officer, just stopped by to give you guys a little housewarmin’ gift.” Merle shakes the plastic bag in his hands. It’s not a woven wicker basket jammed full of hot chocolate powder and drinks like Rachel’s, or honeyed bread and jams like Shane’s, but it’s still more than what Rick would’ve expected. “And I said some things to Daryl last night, thought maybe I’d …” He shifts his feet and stares at Rick. “The hell am I explainin’ myself to _you_ for?”

 _Apologize_. The word Merle isn’t quite capable of saying aloud. Still, Rick nods in understanding, and reaches out for the bag. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll tell Daryl you stopped by.”

“Not so fast,” Merle says, seizing the opportunity for what it is, and bullying his way into the house. “He might not be here, but I got somethin’ I wanna say to _you_.” He jabs a finger into Rick’s chest, his mouth turned down into that permanent frown of his, the same scowl he has when fighting Rick off with a tire iron.

Rick holds up a hand to pre-empt him, because he’s already gotten the _I’ll break your legs if you hurt him_ spiel, and this could only be one other thing. And he’s practiced this speech, even if no one’s asked until now. “I know what you’re gonna say,” Rick says. “Daryl and I, we’ve talked about this, planned it out. This isn’t just some spur-of-the-moment—”

“ _Hell_ no,” says Merle. “Was just gonna say it’s about damn _time_ , officer.” He crowds Rick against the wall, almost nose-to-nose with him, and Rick hears an odd crumpling noise from the stairs, that Rick clears his throat to cover up. “Took you long enough to find your ballsack and get my brother to move in with you.”

 _Oh_. So Merle had been of the same camp as everyone else. The _Took You Long Enough_ one. Rick’s starting to find out that it’d had quite a high attendance rate over the last year.

Merle drops the plastic bag on the floor, where it makes a dull thud. It’s clearly not food, then. “You tell Daryl I came by. And tell him I brung him a peace offering,” he says, and when Rick nods, Merle just snorts, like he knows something Rick doesn’t. “You boys be safe now.” 

And with a laugh that sounds like something’s been caught in a band saw and left to rattle around inside, Merle stomps off the porch and out into the street.

“What was that sound?” Rick laughs, when he’s locked the door, and Daryl’s making his way down the stairs. “You almost gave us away there.”

Daryl thins his lips into a hard line. “Thought Merle was gonna kiss you.” He looks at the empty can of Coke he’s crushed in his hand. “Didn’t like it.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Rick says, shuddering. “Thank god for that.” He leans in and winds his arms around Daryl’s waist, before nudging their noses together, revelling in the rose hue that spreads from their point of contact. “Rather be kissin’ _you_ instead.”

Daryl slants his mouth toward Rick’s for one of these kisses, tasting of cinnamon and pumpkin spice, a mix of the drinks Rachel had sent over. “Think you could be doin’ other things too, if Merle’s gift is what I think it is,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, a perfect mime of the way Rick does it. 

Rick just laughs and busses Daryl on the cheek. Takes a break from cinnamon-sweet kisses and Daryl’s questing fingers beneath his shirt, just long enough to pick up the bag Merle’s dropped on the tile. “Yeah,” Rick says, grinning, when he’s stopped gaping at yet _another_ damn economy-sized pack of condoms and lube and Daryl’s started tugging him toward their bedroom. “Think I could.” 

And as Daryl draws him into the bed, his kisses soft and sweet and filled with every ounce of his devotion, Rick thinks there’s no other way he’d want to spend the start of the new year, than being with the one who loves him, and whom he loves, with all his might, in return.

 

[End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An example of surprise-inside cake can be found [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/surprise%20inside_1.jpg~original). 
> 
> And that’s a wrap! A huge thank you to everyone who’s followed this from the beginning! For those of you just joining now, thank you for giving this story a try! 
> 
> This fic is complete and the story stands on its own. 
> 
> If you're craving more of the boys in this 'verse though, there’s a sequel in the works—one from Daryl’s POV, that takes place a year after the events of this fic.
> 
> See you all then, if not sooner! :D

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [eyeus](http://eyeus.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if you want to chat about headcanons or send prompts my way!


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